The Risk of Love
by obsessedwithstuff
Summary: Romano is dead and Spain is broken, spiralling into the deep, blackness of depression. And as he locks himself from the outside world, isolating himself from his friends, from everyone, in his oblivion of pain, Romano find's he's the only one who can help. Only, how can useless ghost like him even dream to help the slowly dying love of his life? Spamano. GerIta. Character death.
1. The Risk of Love is Loss

"**The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief.**

**But the pain of grief **

**Is only a shadow**

**When compared with the pain**

**Of never risking love"**

_**~ Hilary Stanton Zuinin**_

It was a gloomy day. The sky was a dull grey colour, the usual crystal blue clarity having been lost to the menacing clouds above. It was going to rain. That was easily visible. In the past few hours, the clouds had swollen up greedily, heavy with the water that hung within them, getting slowly darker and more threatening as time passed. They had appeared on the horizon in the early hours of the morning and had rolled over the hillside until the entire sky had been engulfed. It could be any second that they would let go and pour their contents onto the world below.

Spain lowered his head. Honestly, the sky held little interest to him. It was a terrible distraction, so grey and monotonous; it wasn't worth trying to keep staring at it. His eyes landed upon the hole in front of him again – it was the only thing he _could_ look at – and the tightly fit, burgundy red casket inside. It was closed, thank heaven, the perfectly polished lid reflecting the clouds' glare back into his face, but it still brought back everything. The waves of pure agony washing over him, crushing every single cell in his body, his very own soul until it was nothing but dust, blown in the desert wind, his heart being ripped from his chest and torn apart over and over until the pain was utterly unbearable.

Spain screwed his eyes shut. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

The priest's voice had become a distant mumbling long ago. Everything seemed distant now a days, fuzzy, out of focus, like it wasn't really there. They were all just ghosts on a shadowy night. He would fade out from the world, stuck deep in his mind, in his own world of nothing but pain. The only thing that could bring him back was the mention of _him_.

"Italy Romano."

Spain's mind snapped back on track instantly, being forced back into reality at the mention of _his _name. He glanced around him, sobbing and crying mourners standing everywhere. They held no interest to him, no sympathy. Their tears were just petty compared to real feelings, to the pain he held. He tried to feel disgusted but he had nothing left within him to do it. He was completely numb.

He could imagine clearly what the Italian say if he were here, complaining about the every little detail as his eyes would shine in that way that show...ed how he truly felt.

'_Look at this. Call this a fucking funeral. Those guys aren't even crying. When you're at my funeral, I want you fucking mourn, dammit! And where's all the girls? There should be hundreds of cute girls flocking in to appreciate my amazing, sexy presence in their lives. And what the fuck is this! Lilys! Well, I guess their not that bad – they are our national flower – but I wanted tomatoes buried with me so I could eat them when I'm dead. This is the crappiest fucking funeral ever!'_

Spain might have smiled. His mind could make a pretty good version of _him_. But it wasn't him. It never would be again.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The burning pain in his chest flared up again, eating away at him slowly from the inside. It wrenched at him, everything nothing but pure agony. Just a memory, just hearing his name, his voice, was excruciating torture.

Why did he have to leave? Couldn't he have just stayed for a little while longer? Couldn't he have stayed just to say goodbye?

"He will be missed greatly, but now we can be sure he is heading on to a better life. God bless him."

'_Better life my ass.' _

The priest closed his bible. He nodded discreetly to the two men beside him and they began to slowly, respectfully, lower the burgundy coffin into the ground. Spain opened his eyes to watch only.

The coffin sank slowly into the ground, giving people around them time to say their final goodbyes before he was to be buried and gone forever. The Spaniard felt his heart, his life, sink into the earth with it. It would be buried and, Spain knew there and then, he would never get it back. All he wanted to do was throw himself in there with the sinking coffin and spent the rest of his days there. At least then the pain would stop.

The procession ended. People began to take their leave. Spain could only assume they were heading to the reception. Some people lingered, paying their last respects and sparing a few comforting words for Spain himself. Spain didn't care. Their words were like snowflakes against a window, completely useless at getting through but pretty to look at from a distance. They eventually left as well. ("We can't be late. It would seem dreadfully disrespectful.")

Spain drew a deep shaky breath. He was alone, at last. He could finally say goodbye the way he wanted to.

The silence of the graveyard rang in his ears. It surrounded him in a rush, swallowing him in its huge jaws, along with the last of his sanity. The wind blew. The trees rustled. Spain still stared down at the grave, dead stiff.

Without any warning, the Spaniard turned so his back was facing the grave, not able to look at the life ending pit. He began to walk, his numbness controlling him. He wasn't going to the reception. He couldn't. He didn't understand how people could eat and celebrate after someone had just died – especially someone as important as _him_. Honestly, he didn't know where he was going. He just needed to go, to get away from the empty graveyard.

Within seconds, Spain was running.

He didn't look back.

An hour later, the bloated clouds finally poured their contents onto the world below, relieved at the chance to finally empty themselves again. It began slowly, drop by drop, the fat, splattering drops of summer rain, but it quickly got harder, until it was the kind that had you soaking to the bone in seconds. The constant battering of rain became a thick mist, distorting the surrounding scenery like frosted glass.

The cemetery was deserted. Even in the light of day no one would come visit the dead, not that they could complain.

Spain was walking, slowly and stiffly. The cold rain drops hit his face, sharp as pricks from a needle, and slowly slid down to the ground. His clothes were sodden and hung heavy on his body. The wind controlled his soaking hair, blowing and battering it around, the most fun it had had in days. The constant pounding of rain drummed rhythmically on his head. In his hand, he held a white, plastic bag. It was dripping wet but the plastic covering had safely protected what was inside. It shook violently as the wind gusted, trying to escape from its place in his grip.

He didn't notice the rain or the wind. Nothing. He just walked.

The grave drew up in front of him, _his _grave, and Spain suddenly stopped. The crunching of his shoes against the grass ceased. He was enveloped in silence once again; the only sound the constant hum of the driving rain. He stood numbly beside it, staring wide-eyed down at the grave.

It was filled. The fresh dirt covered his only, and last, passage to his love.

His legs gave way, collapsing into a trembling mess on the muddy ground. He couldn't stand anymore he felt so weak. His hands shook, his breathing quickened. He couldn't believe... It was really real. Everything was really happening. All of it.

He couldn't tear his eyes from the grave in front of him, he didn't dare to, the fear of losing more of his love after the last time gripping him strongly, not even to study the newly erected headstone. Salty tears, ones of silent torture, streaked down his face, mingling with the heavy rain drops before falling to the muddy ground, insignificant amongst everything else. Then the sobs came. They tore through him as the world as he knew it crashed and burned maliciously around him. They echoed out across the empty graveyard, cutting through all other noises, reflecting back to him as if shove in his face the heart break and sorrow that filled his screams. Each one that rattled through him only got more and more desperate as he knelt, alone and soaked, in the surrounding mud.

_Alone_.

The word echoed over and over agonisingly through his mind. It wouldn't stop. He couldn't make it. _He was alone. Always._

Time was not something that Spain took notice of now a days. The sun set and, a little while later, it rose again. Sometimes it was dark, sometimes it was light, sometimes it was nothing. And so was each day.

He didn't know how long ago the funeral had ended when his sobs finally stopped. The sun was still up, that was one thing, but only just, the day's sunset evident over the horizon. The rain still poured lightly onto his head. The graveyard was still empty.

Spain lifted his tear stung eyes, staring into nothing for a moment before slowly focusing on the freshly filled, muddy grave. It looked bland, as dull and grey as the sky above. A different sort of sadness began to fill his hollow inside, one of almost disappointment. He could not bear to see _his _grave in this way.

He remembered the plastic bag, lying strewn out and wet across the muddy ground where he had mistakenly dropped it. Spain panicked. It couldn't be ruined, could it? The rain had been hammering down for hours now and he didn't even know how long it had been since he dropped it...

Spain hesitantly removed the plant from the bag. It was still standing, although the healthy gleam it had had when he'd bought it had all but vanished, and the leaves were still the beautiful, bright green colour he had known and loved for most of his life.

Spain was careful as he placed it back on the ground, not wanting the disaster of having his present actually be destroyed. It stayed upright, just, and, with a satisfied, yet broken, sigh, he turned to the grave and began digging a small hole in front of the headstone. The freshly laid soil made it easy to manoeuvre with his hands. Becoming dirty to him did not matter right now. But as he dug, the pelting rain managed to fill every inch of the hole as he spooned more and more dirt out.

Spain stopped digging a few minutes later, satisfied, and went to pick up the plant beside him. He turned back to it, plant in hands, only to find it was nothing more than a muddy puddle. He didn't care. He placed the plant in the hole, the water that splashed onto his face being run off almost instantly by the constant rain, and filled in the remaining space with soil, pressing it down firmly so nothing would come loose. The dirt felt grainy in his fingers. It crumbled at a single touched, leaving brown tracing behind on his fingers. He was finished in minutes.

The rain quickly darkened the soil around the plant, dripping from its green leaves onto the ground underneath.

Spain stood, his eyes never leaving the plant. He might have smiled. Romano would have liked it.

Agonising pain fired up in his heart at the mention of his love's name, not that he had a heart anymore. Shattered to pieces, torn from his chest, buried with the body. How it happened Spain would never know, but it was gone now, leaving only a hollow emptiness, as empty as the graveyard around him.

Spain turned and walked away for the second time that day, leaving the empty graveyard behind him.

The sun was setting, stealing the last of the light from the world. It cast an eerie, orange glow over everything, including the newly dug grave. The plant Spain had planted still stood above it, bending and swaying as the wind ordered it too, feeling the wrath of the heavy rain upon its bright green leaves. If one were to study it closely, small, green baby tomatoes would be visible amongst the leaves and braches, noticeably lighter compared to their own colour. With the right love and care, they would soon grow to become healthy ripe tomatoes.

'_Thank you.'_

Spain might have smiled.

* * *

**Hey everybody! I'm back :) And this time, it's personal. I've done a lot of work writing this fic so I hope you like it :D I'll be updating weekly and I'll make sure I stay on schedule for you guys. Cos you are amazing! If you liked it, feel free to leave a review just in the box below. If you didn't, do the same (I need to learn how I can improve :D) Thanks!**


	2. Something that is Irretrievably Lost

"**The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to them alone, absolutely and **_**irretrievably **_**lost"**

_**~ Arthur Schopenhauer**_

The cold, morning sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, the curtains still wide open from the night before – they were never closed – lighting up the room with a dull light that only a hazy day can shine. The sunrise today had been no different from any other. It was always the same sun, rising in the same place after all, so why would today be any different?

Spain lay, eyes closed, deep in sleep, on the large double bed centred in his room. Although people say that sleep is the most peaceful time of the day, for him it certainly wasn't. His face was contorted, warped into a mask of worry. He tossed and turned persistently, changing restlessly from his side, to his back and to his side once again. Indiscernible mummers escaped his lips, sometimes barely audible, sometimes becoming moans and cries of pain tearing through him. He still slept though.

A nightmare. Another one. It had to be. He had woken up every morning since the funeral in the same way, stiff, frozen with fright, his breathing heavy and his eyes wide and staring, fear pooling within them, the fear of reality, the fear of waking and having to face another day. But it always came; realisation, the truth, always eventually came.

This was the fifth day now; the fifth sunrise that had risen. The nightmares had been battering him every night with no rest.

At least the dream world held a place he could escape to, a place he could be without pain for an inkling of a moment. It wasn't peace but it was better than reality. Reality was nothing. All he did was lie, dead –or as good as – lifeless beneath his protective sheets. He was a motionless creature, always staring with a blank expression into nothing. He never ate. He never washed. He never moved. He wasted away his days, his life, and filled them with emptiness. They floated past him like beautiful, pure feathers caught by the wind.

His expression was vacant, always vacant, not even a slither of emotion spreading onto it. It was as if he had no emotion left in him to feel.

"Romano."

The word was barely audible, his stifled mutters for once forming a single coherent word. It made Romano's heart ache, like it could shatter at any moment, crack into a million tiny, glistening pieces. It hurt too much to see him like this. Spain shouldn't be this way. It wasn't right. To see the Spaniard, once bright and happy, that perfect smile never leaving his face, to have fallen so deep, was more than Romano could bear. So much pain, so much depression surrounded him, it crushed him, bearing down on him (down and down) until even lifting his head was an arduous task.

_It's a miracle he even wants to live..._

It occurred to Romano then and there, as the thought flitted through his mind, that he didn't. But Spain was country, and countries couldn't commit suicide. That was something Romano would be forever grateful for.

Romano had been with Spain continuously for the past five days; always invisible, always dead, simply watching, hoping, as the days passed over the Spaniard one by one, as he slowly deteriorated lower and lower into depression. The pain washed over him, wave upon wave, and the whole time he managed to keep a straight, dead face, as if he were doing it for him, for Romano. Only the night gave an insight into how Spain truly felt. He could only imagine the agony he was going through.

And all Romano could do was watch.

Many people had attempted to consol Spain in the days that had passed. Distant knocks (for the doorbell had been long out of use) had echoed through the large house many times, making it to the bedroom only as quiet taps. Usually it had been France or Prussia, they're worried voices travelling through the silent halls more than others, sometimes together, sometimes alone, begging desperately for Spain to let them, anybody, in.

'_You need to talk to someone, mon ami.' _

'_You're going to die if you spend the rest of your life like this.'_

Spain had done nothing. He remained silent, unmoving, undisturbed by frantic calls echoing through the corridors, his lips pressed together firmly in a tight line. They always turned bleach white while his friends voices could be heard.

Belgium and Austria had visited too, although they were less vocal than the Spaniard's best friends, and once the gruff voice of Spain's anxious boss had come through the front door. Although Romano had no clue as to what was being said – Spanish had always been a hard language to understand – he sounded genuinely concerned, more so than other bosses, and had talked to Spain in a respectful, sympathising voice, as though he were his friend and not his employer.

But they all eventually left and the world fell into the dark abyss once again.

"Romano!"

This time it was louder, more definite, and the pain in the cry stabbed straight through Romano's unbeating heart. Another crack, ever fragile, ever crumbling.

Romano sighed. He would give anything, everything, if only Spain to hear his voice. He desperately wanted to say something, to try and comfort him, to help him. It was too painful just standing there, as black and useless as a clouded sky on the new moon.

_It fucking sucks being a ghost. At least in all those movies and stuff people could hear them. _

Romano sighed again (he was doing that a lot lately) and looked down to the sleeping Spaniard below him.

"If only..." he muttered.

Spain's eyes snapped open. It made Romano jump, startled, and back away a few steps. In his eyes, the emerald green sparkle that usually shone so brightly was back for once, a flickering candle in the windy darkness. But they were wide, fright and terror flooding into them, clear on his face. His breathing was quick, heavy. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

And in an instant the flash had gone and the sparkle in his eyes faded, leaving only dull, glazed ones behind.

"Good. You're finally awake. I've been fucking bored out of my mind waiting for you. Watching you sleep isn't as much fun as you'd think it is." Romano paused for a second, wondering, hoping, if Spain would say anything. He didn't. "Well... don't just lie there. Get off your fucking lazy butt and cook some breakfast, dammit!"

Spain stayed unmoving, his blank eyes staring out the window at the grey morning. Romano huffed, irritation beginning to grate at the edge of him. He took a determined step in front of Spain, blocking his line of sight, and crouched down so his eyes were directly level with the Spaniard's. The pain and agony every day brought with it was unmistakable in the perfect forest green of his eyes. They didn't focus, remaining glazed and distant as if Romano wasn't even there.

_He wasn't._

"Are you even listening to me, bastard?"

_He wasn't_.

"I said stop lazing about and go make some fucking breakfast! You can't just spend your whole life in bed."

Silence echoed through out the room. Spain blinked, his expression empty, almost bored. He stared straight through the Italian and out the window, not even acknowledging him. Not that he expected him to. He would never acknowledge him.

After a moment of nothing, Spain let out a long, heart wrenching sigh and turned to lie on back his so he faced the ceiling. It was as if he couldn't bear to look at Romano, but the Italian knew that was just his own imagination.

Romano scowled.

"Dammit Spain, you haven't eaten anythingin, what, a week? You've barely even moved. You can't just waste your whole life lying in bed and doing nothing..."

It was comforting to Romano, talking to Spain, yelling at him, the closest to joy he had felt since the funeral. It had began a few days ago, when he had accidently spoken to Spain out of habit ("Well, at least it's raining. You won't have to water that damn tomato plant."). It had caught him off guard, the words had felt so natural as he said them that he hadn't even realised he had spoken until it was done, but, even though he knew Spain would never say anything back, he got an unexplainable urge to keep going. He soon found that it gave him a sense of purpose, like he actually existed, instead of being an unreal presence, a cold patch in a world of warm sunshine. It was like he was finally doing something, actually being useful in spite of everything, watching, waiting, hoping

_At least I can lie to myself. _

Everything he said though was immediately lost, nothing more than a silent breath on a windy day. _He _heard his voice but it would quickly become mixed and muddled with everything else, scattered into the wind of the noisy, real world. It would never make it beyond his ears.

Spain didn't respond – _of course he didn't respond_ – he just lay on the bed, dead in soul, heart and everything that was worth living for, only an empty shell left, his ever staring eyes and blank expression making him look like a cold corpse. It sent a shiver slithering down Romano's spine. The only thing that comforted him was the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Spain's chest.

Romano counted the hours that passed by, every one seeming like ten. It was four before Spain moved from the position he was in; another three before he changed again. It almost undid Romano.

If he could do anything to help... He had to at least try.

"S-Spain..." His words lodged in his throat. His knees buckled and the ground rushed up to meet them. There was no sound when they hit the floor. "P-please Spain. Get up. Eat something. Do anything. Do it for me, please." His voice was soft, desperate, not like his usual self. He felt his hands clasp together and rise up to his chest. "You shouldn't be like this. You can't spend the rest of your life lying in bed, dammit! You'll waste away into nothing!" Spain remained lifeless, never acknowledging him. Romano felt his heart splinter. "Spain... please... I-I wouldn't want this. I _don't _want this. You can't keep doing this. It'll break you. It's just... you... I-I can't see you like this anymore!"

Spain sighed. His eyes fluttered shut. Romano could only assume he was asleep.

* * *

**Hello everybody again! Thank you for reading this far in my story cos if you did you really are awesome ^_^ And thank you so so much to everyone who reviewed! You guys are awesome as well! I hope this chapter wasn't too depressing again, but I've heard it is... OH WELL!**

**Just one thing, someone in a review said that it wasn't clear in the previous chapter if it was the nation Romano or the human version that died. It was the nation. I'm following the idea that because there are two versions of Italy for one country, one of them can actually be killed.**

**Again, thank you so much for reading and favouriting and reviewing and everything! Please feel free to leave another if you liked it **


	3. Words are Like Nets

"**Words are like nets - we hope they'll cover what we mean, but we know they can't possibly hold that much joy, or wonder, or grief." **

_**~ Jodi Picoult **_

'_I'm telling you, if you don't get out of that fucking bed right now I'm walking out of that fucking door and never coming back. I've been standing here for two fucking weeks, dammit, doing nothing but watching you waste your life lying in bed. I deserve a break. Dammit, I'm taking a break! It's your life and I don't give a fuck about what you do with it!'_

The sound of water splattering against a tile floor echoed through the empty house. It was loud, the noise being amplified, slicing through deafening silence that had surrounded the house for so long. It morphed into a humming noise, the constant sound of water droplets banging against the floor, mesmerizing, distracting, persistently tearing Romano from his thoughts.

Romano sat, head in hands, shoulders slumped, alone on the large bed centred in the room. He stared at the floor, stiff, unmoving, a heavy frown plastered onto his face.

He couldn't focus. He couldn't organize his cluttered thoughts. The buzz of the shower was making him jittery, cutting through his concentration and scattering his thoughts all over again. It was the only noise he had heard in weeks, aside from his own voice, and the sudden break from the deafening silence didn't bring as much relief as he would have hoped.

_Just shut the fuck up and be happy. He's out of bed, isn't he? _

Spain had broken his dark slumber only that morning. It was another cold, grey morning, just like all the others, the dark clouds always looming over, blocking out any remaining sun. Spain had woken in fright, as usual, the nightmares always haunting him, heart pounding, eyes wide and staring. It was the same as the previous morning and the morning before that and the morning before that. The house had quickly filled with Romano's angry voice, yelling and shouting curses at Spain. An eerie feeling crept over as his shouts didn't echo back to him. Spain remained cold, unresponsive, as usual.

The threatening words had burst from Romano's mouth before he had even thought about it, the frustration and pain that had been building up inside him exploding out in a gushing stream of words. He didn't even give it a second thought. The words flowed naturally from his mouth, completely filled with anger and pain. But they meant nothing; simply as meaningless as the millions of voices of the twinkling stars on a cloud covered night. They floated around the bed completely harmless.

Yet, it was only minutes later that Spain had emerged from his shadow filled hole.

The nagging feeling at the back of his mind, tugging and pulling and tangling up his thoughts, wouldn't leave him alone.

_It couldn't be a coincidence, could it?_

The water shut off. The deafening silence engulfed the room once again. Romano looked up, his eyes instinctively drawn to the closed bathroom door.

There was silence, then a click. The door opened and the soaking wet Spaniard stepped drearily through the door. Drips of water fell from the strands of his now deep brown hair. His eyes were lowered. His shoulders were slumped in deep despair. The only thing he wore was a thin, white towel wrapped around his waist.

Romano's breath hitched in his throat. He didn't dare tear his eyes from the beauty in front of him.

"S-Spain..." A small smile crept onto Romano's lips. He didn't even attempt to hide it. He stared at the Spaniard indiscreetly. "Fuck... Even after everything, you still manage to look like a sexy piece of-"

Romano spluttered and choked, silencing himself suddenly as he quickly forced back the embarrassing words. But they were already out in the open, bare against the burning eyes of the Spanish man in front of him.

Romano's cheeks flared up, instantly turning bright shades of red and pink, quickly spreading until it tinted at his ears. He averted his eyes, watching intently as he clumsily fumbled with his own fingers. He tried to speak again, to save himself, but his words stuttered and tripped as they exited his mouth, only coming out as single letters and syllables. He eventually stopped even trying. There was no way he could save this now. Spain had heard the embarrassing comment and-

The bed rose with a jerk as Spain collapsed onto it, groaning as though he had just come back from a long, arduous day at work and not just taken a shower. He lay on the bed, staring blankly at ceiling, disappointingly falling back into his usual habits. He acted as though nothing had happened, as though Romano hadn't even spoken, as though the Italian was nothing more than a puff of wind blowing gently against his cheek...

_He didn't hear it!_

Romano's heart rose and fell completely in exactly the same instant. He was glad his comment had not been heard, his deep red cheeks beginning to return to their normal colour, as his embarrassment was more than he could stand. But... was it really worth it?

The overwhelming realisation crushed him and, suddenly, Romano was a shattered mess once again.

If only Spain could hear him. If only his compliment would get through...

The next few days rushed by in minutes for Romano. It felt to him like barely any of it even happened, the long, pain-filled days of waiting seemingly gone forever. Looking back on it later, Romano couldn't escape the awful inkling of a feeling that that was how the dead were supposed to spend the rest of their days.

It had become an unbreakable habit now, Romano voicing his thoughts, every thought, idea, feeling that popped into his head was out of his mouth instantly. He was constantly talking, the words always naturally flowing, and there was nothing to stop him. He didn't know why; he just felt more real when he heard the words himself.

Complements were the main things that blurted from his mouth. Whenever he looked at Spain, no matter where he was, Romano couldn't help but remind himself how wonderful he was, why he loved him. With the knowledge that Spain would never hear those embarrassing thoughts, he was happy to express every last thought and feeling he had, he had ever had, about the love of his life.

"I miss it," Romano said to himself day-dreamily as he gazed into Spain's eyes "that sparkle in your eyes you used to get when you smiled – which was all the fucking time by the way – it was just... it took my breath away, okay? Your smile, your eyes, all of it. I'll really miss it."

Romano tried to hide the smile that threatened to slip through as he said the words. He didn't think he succeeded. Spain didn't blink. He continued to lie in his bed and stare blankly at the ceiling, an empty, lifeless shell.

"I still can't believe it," he let slip absentmindedly as he watched Spain thickly scrap himself from his bed covers. The Spaniard only managed two steps before stopping dead, but Romano still continued. "You've been so strong lately, it's amazing. You've gotten out of bed and you're getting over my death so fast..." Romano sighed. "I don't think I could've lasted a single day without you. I would just... I wouldn't even want to live anymore. I-I can't even think about it hurts so much. And here you are, holding on and being so incredibly strong. It's just... unbelievable."

Spain still didn't respond. He never responded. Romano didn't expect him to.

And every now and then, as Romano would lazily watch, admire, Spain in all he did, those three simple words would slip from his mouth.

"I love you"

He could never stop his cheeks from burning the colour of a perfect sunset whenever he did.

Minutes, or days – Romano could never tell now – passed. It caught his attention, only a small thing at first, a side thought that he could never believe, but as he thought about it more he began to notice it more. Romano found himself thinking that maybe it could be...

It was Spain. There something about him, the atmosphere around him, the way he walked and that permanent frown that was carved on to his face. They seemed different, felt different. Everything about the Spaniard seemed... lighter, more alive, like the huge weight that had been pressing down on him, crushing him, crushing his heart, was beginning to gradually ease off and let him go. His hopeless state of emptiness was finally passing, a grave storm always certain to leave eventually no matter how ominous. But the moments were fleeting, they hardly seemed there at all, never lasting long enough to seem permanent.

He only noticed later that these brief moments of bliss came just after he had uttered one of his compliments.

_Hope...  
_He had almost forgotten what it felt like.

He had so long ago abandoned even trying to hope the idea of it seemed like a distant memory. It was always obscured by the devastating blows of disappointment. He had feared these blows so much that he'd given up all traces of hope. But the disappointment still came.

And so, as this new hope began to rush back to him, filling him up until he was ready to burst, he couldn't help but feel scared. What if it was nothing? What if was all just a coincidence? What if Spain couldn't hear him? What if Spain would never hear him? What if he was doomed to forever walk the earth with nothing and nobody?

_What if..._

So many emotions swirled around in him, he couldn't sit still. He paced constantly, still voicing thoughts that popped into his head – although not these ones – trying to find something to do with his agitated mind. He didn't even know the dead could feel so many things.

He trod carefully. He knew he was on a thin line, teetering on the edge of a cliff, staring down into the dark abyss below. It wouldn't be long before the winds of reality would push him off and he would go tumbling into the darkness.

He didn't think he could face anymore disappointment.

* * *

**Here we are! Another chapter for you amazing people. I'd just like to say, so so so many people have followed this story and thank you so much to everyone who has! It makes me feel happy that people are actually enjoying a story **_**I**_** wrote ^_^ And the reviews! GAH! You guys are so sweet thank you :D **

**Please leave your reviews of what you think of this chapter. I'll give you cyber cookies if you do :D**


	4. No One Ever Really Dies

"**No one ever really dies as long as they took the time to leave us with fond memories"**

_**~ Chris Sorensen**_

The silence was comforting for once, not piercing or suffocating as usual, just soft. Romano was happy to welcome it in.  
The tears and sobs that had ripped through the air not minutes before were fresh in his mind, clogging it up so it was the only thing he could think of. It would always be carved into his mind, the heart-wrenching screeches of pain, begging, pleading, filled with agony. It was the worst he had seen the Spaniard since the funeral and it was branded painfully into his memory forever.

Spain lay sprawled out on the sofa. He faced the black television screen in front of him but his eyes were not open. They were screwed shut, afraid of the outside world, an expression of insufferable pain plastered over his face. His eyes were puffy and red. His nose ran. His cheeks were streaked with tears. One arm dangled limply off the sofa, the TV remote cracked beneath it.

Romano had watched all of it and not spoken a word. He wouldn't, he couldn't, and not just because the words were lodged by the lump in his throat. Now it was over he didn't want to speak. The silence was too comforting. Romano only slid to the floor, sitting stiff beside Spain's feet, leaning against the sofa.

"Hey Spain," he muttered, the rhetorical words out in the open and breaking the silence before he even knew what he was saying. He was so used to saying his feelings out loud now; he didn't even give it a second thought. "Do you remember that time we went to the park? It was hot, august I think, and we sat under the shade of that one massive tree, all alone, and picnicked. Tomato sandwiches, I think." Romano chuckled humourlessly. "We stayed there all day, didn't we? Just lying there, talking, until the sun set and the stars came out. And we started naming them. You just made up a bunch of bullshit names and said they were actually true. You even named one after me... Yeah, that was a nice da-"

"Shut up."

Romano stopped, the fog of silence smashing hard against him. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He could do nothing but stare, mouth open in shock at the grieving Spaniard. Spain was unchanged, eyes still screwed shut, the agonizing expression still on his face. It was as if he hadn't uttered a word. But he had. It had rung out clear as day through the all but empty house.

"Y-you...b-but..." Romano spluttered, his jumbled mess of thoughts making impossible to speak coherently. His body reacted before his mind could, rising to his feet, never tearing his eyes from the defeated Spaniard. He tried to ignore his desperately shaking legs, his unbeating heart pounding in his ears.

_Spain just spoke to me... Did he?_

Romano needed to know if Spain had actually said it. He needed to know if it was _him_ he was talking to. This time when he opened his mouth he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

"Y-you can hear me?" It was a shocked mutter; he couldn't muster anything more in his foggy state of mind. Whether it was a question or a statement, he wasn't sure, but he knew now. As soon the words slipped from his lips, he knew they were completely true.

Romano's feelings were suddenly scattered everywhere, no sense of order running through them at all. His heart fluttered in excitement, suddenly breathless that his only ever wish was coming true, yet it squeezed with the hurt that rushed through him, realising with devastation that Spain had kept this from him all this time. He didn't try to understand, he could only raise an accusing finger at the silent Spaniard. It trembled as he held it in the air.

"You _can _hear me... Y-you... you bastard! You can hear me!" The sudden anger was too much to hold in. His rage formed a distorting cloud in front of his eyes, tinting the taste on his tongue, and suddenly Spain was his worst enemy. He could do nothing but scream as it boiled and smashed within him.

"You bastard!"

"Shut up!" Spain's lips moved as the words cut through the anger filled atmosphere. It only hammered the nail on Romano's rage.

"Don't fucking tell me to shut up! You can hear me-"

"Shut up!"

"-and after everything I said, you never fucking told me! I thought I was just talking to myself!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

_He can fucking hear me! _

Anger blazed through Romano. It burned in his mind, a searing flame fuelled by all his hate and pain that had festered inside him the past weeks. He trembled uncontrollably, his hands curling into fists at his side. He needed to lash out, to punch something, anything.  
_He can hear me!_

But he couldn't suppress the excitement that bubbled through him, exploded in his heart. He could feel it trying to burst from his chest and fly away into the sunshine. The happiness, the hope, it more than he had ever wished to feel for the rest of his life.

_He can hear me! _His mind screamed it at him, the only thing he could think through his fog of shock. But he was careful – cautious optimism as they say – he had to know for certain.

"Spain... just tell me... can you hear me?" His voice was trembling as he tried to contain his anger.

"Please shut up."

"You just have to say 'yes', dammit. Then it's over. I'll shut up for you."

"Go away! Just shut up."

The pain in Spain's cries was becoming ever more agonizing. Romano's voice caught in his throat, the excruciating yells piercing him like shattered glass. He couldn't stand hearing it. He couldn't bare it. He had heard too much of it for one life time, for a million life times. He wasn't strong enough. He could never be strong enough.

But the infinite questions still flitted through his mind. It took him all he had not to voice them out loud.

_Why didn't he tell me? _

The twang of pain that came with the question became more prominent every time he thought it. But it was nothing compared to the Spaniard lying in front of him, suffering in misery as he woke up every day to the emptiness, the agony and torture, of reality. Every thing Romano had said since he had died must have been close to death to him, every word, every curse, every compliment-

Romano's stomach dropped like a bullet. His eyes widened desperately. A shocked gasp escaped through his trembling lips.

_He... He heard everything I said...  
_Embarrassment and dread burned through him, a hungry disease, twisting and squeezing at his heart, flushing every inch of his face the bright red of blood. He felt his shaky hands rise to his mouth, covering it, attempting to stop the silent scream that was slipping from his mouth.

"Y-you... but... no..."

For the first time since his death, Romano was deeply grateful that Spain could not see him, invisible like the stars beside the blazing sun, always there, never to be seen. At least his humiliation would not be display for the whole world to see. Only Spain would know, but then, it was only Spain that mattered.

For the first time since his death, Romano wished with all he had that he wasn't here, that he could have stayed with his body, forever buried in the blackness of the damming, soul-sucking hole of his grave, that he had never come back to this world, here with the only purpose to torture the one he loved. He couldn't stand it, the stabbing, blistering agony he felt every time he saw that vacant look in Spain's eyes, the screams of torture that echoed through the house every night when he had no option but listen to them drag on, and on, and on.

It was torture, worse than torture.

His anger, his complete and utter humiliation, was too much for him to bear. It was all he could feel, the only thing that blazed through his veins. And it was there and then that Romano decided maybe it was best for them both if he was to disappear completely, if he simply stopped talking, cutting off his final way for them to reach each other. The very idea of it sent a numbing pain shooting through him. It was like a blackening cloud had spread over the sun, sucking out all the light and energy from the world. But it was how everything was supposed to be. He should not be here. He was dead, and as long he kept silent, kept his mind blank from all thoughts, then maybe he could finally leave.

At least then the pain would stop.

* * *

**Sorry it's a day late. I have no excuse, I just kinda forgot it was Friday yesterday. I thought it was today. But then, that's what summer will do to you. Well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Something's finally happening (YAY) Please review! I really want to know what you guys think :3**


	5. Numbing the Pain

"**Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it." **

_**~ J.K. Rowling**_

Romano stayed deathly true to his promise over the next few days. He never uttered a word, not a whisper, not a sound, even his footsteps were as silent as the graveyard. He could only watch, a grave expression carved deep into his face, as his beloved Spain went through his hours, his days, without the salvation of Romano's voice there.

The world was numb to Romano, the dark clouds of the prevailing storm always hanging over his head but never quite reaching him. He hadn't realised how much he had needed the words he spoke to the Spaniard when he made the promise to himself. Now he was silenced, his tongue twisted to obey his vow, Romano could feel that a piece of him had died away. Everyday he watched as Spain leaked through the hours, never smiling, never happy, barely able to get out of bed. Some days he didn't he even try. That was happening more often now.

Romano could only watch as Spain, the love of his life, spiralled further and further into the bottomless pit his hollow heart had created. His shoulders would slump. His feet would drag. His face contorted into a permanent mask of pain. And his eyes, always empty, just like his soul.

Agony couldn't even begin to describe what Romano felt.

The silence was the worst though. He had got by before, survived the soul sucking silence that engulfed the house with his own voice. It had cut into it and echoed through the halls, making it bearable at least. But now Romano was choking, drowning in it. He could hear the too-steady sound of his breathing, of Spain's, but that was all, breathing in and out and in and out. And it always sent an unnerving shiver up his spine when he realised his heart was dead in his chest, when his feet hit the ground and no sound echoed from it. They were all reminders, infinite reminders, that he was dead, gone, completely and utterly worthless to the world.

He could feel it slowly driving him crazy, twisting and warping his mind devilishly with nothing else to do in this empty world. He found himself wishing for the nights to come along, for Spain to fall into his torturous sleep, just so the silence would be lost for a while. His screams and desperate cries of his name became soothing to his ears, to his mind. It was only afterwards did the crushing guilt for thinking those thoughts overwhelm him and force him back into the shadowy corner of his mind.

_At least it isn't silent._

It was that, along with the never ending numbness and suffocating silence, that made him want to cry out to the heavens, scream until his voice cracked, asking what he had done to deserve this. Maybe this was hell. Maybe he had been so evil when he was alive he had been dammed to an eternity of this. Maybe he wasn't even with the real Spain; he was in his own personal hell that the Devil had created for him.

_Don't be fucking stupid, _the slither of sanity he had left told him. _What would the Devil have against a piece of shit like you? _

And still, the silence went on, and on, and on...

The sudden bangs that scorched through the air had shattered everything in an instant. Romano started violently, spinning around on his feet in fright to find what had made the noise. Across the room, the front door shook as fists thumped against it from the outside, sending piercing bangs echoing through the empty house. There was silence for a moment, before it began again. Romano tried to feel his heart hammering in his chest at the sudden fright. It took a moment to work out why he couldn't.

"Spain!? Come on. It's us! Me and France! Let us in buddy!"

_Prussia..._

Romano rolled his eyes; he should have known. Only staring at the door for a moment more, Romano listened as the knocking continued, a for once thankful break from the torturing silence that had engulfed the house the last few days (or was it weeks), before returning to his original solitude at the dining room table. He didn't know how long the Spaniard had been sitting there, half dressed, eyes down, intently staring at his perfectly still fingers, as if trying to distract himself, as if trying to forget. His expression was blank, a perfect empty mask, as always.

"Please, _mon ami_... let us in. You need to talk to someone."

Something twitched within Spain and a peculiar look came across his face as his lips hardened into a bleach white line. The pain was obvious – and Romano realised with a sad squeeze of his heart that he had become almost used to the infinite, agonizing expression that had settled upon Spain's face – but there was something beneath it, gently making its way to the surface in the contours of his beautiful, green eyes. Guilt.

_At least he's feeling something._

More bangs echoed through the empty halls. They were becoming louder, harder, more desperate.

"Spain please! It's been more than three weeks! You need to let someone in! You can't just sit there and mope for the rest of your life. You'll kill yourself."

"Surely you can't want that. To kill yourself..."

Their voices trailed off into indiscernible murmurs as they spoke amongst themselves. A bitter smirk wormed its way onto Romano's face at the irony of their words. Of course Spain wanted to... No. He shouldn't think about it. He couldn't let the idea of Spain committing s-suicide even cross his mind. It was too much.

A quiet moan slipped through the house, making thankful distraction from Romano's current, twisted thought track. Spain closed his eyes, and for a moment he looked as though he was almost praying, before slamming his head hard on the table. The sigh that followed was one filled with utter frustration and pain. It took all Romano had not to say what ran through his mind.

Again, the bangs began on the door, softer this time though, apprehensive.

"Spain? You there? We just wanna talk." Prussia's voice was softer too, no longer shouting to be heard above the silence. He was sympathetic. "You don't even have to let us in. We can talk through the window, or give us a call or something."

No reply. They were giving up, earlier than usual this time.

"Well... we're going now. If you ever want to talk, just... call us, ok?"

Fading footsteps echoed faintly from outside. There was an exasperated sigh, and then France's final words floated in, ones that cut into Romano deeply.

"Romano wouldn't want this."

The footsteps faded and then they were gone.

_They're right. _The thought automatically flitted through Romano's mind as he stared at the now silent doorway, France's final mutter playing over and over relentlessly through his head. It was maliciously planned and too well said, intended to hurt and cut whatever was left of the Spanish man, but also intended to motivate him, to get him to do something other than stay locked away with only his own torturous thoughts for company. What else would be better motivation than the thing that led him there in the first place?

"R-Romano..."

It was only a whisper, but it was so filled with desperation that Romano felt all the weeks (or was it days) of numbed pain come shooting back him in one enormous rush, piercing into his chest, a white, hot knife, never killing, only causing pain. It knocked him speechless, his mouth wide open in silent sobs, and his heart shattered in his chest in a million new ways, the cracks and splinters deepening into permanent residence.

He couldn't stop the quiet cry, filled with sharp agony, from slipping through his lips.

It was too much for him to control, all the emotions he had suppressed riling up in side of him like caged animals. The simple fact that Spain was talking to him, saying his name, not through a tortured murmur that sleep had brought through the infinite nightmares, directly to _him._

His every emotion was reflected in Spain's eyes, as he stared unfocused from his seat in the direction Romano was stood. They were lost, frantically searching, a misplaced child drowning in the harshness of reality without the one it loved to guide it through. There was a flash of hope, hidden deep within the layers of Spain's dead eyes, but never quite strong enough to face the disappointment that would inevitably come crashing down on him. Only, it was fading, fast.

Spain lifted a trembling hand in Romano's direction, an effort to grab his last ounce of sanity, to hold onto the only snippet of life that wasn't pain anymore. Romano stared at it, his breath hitching in his throat, an all new sadness squeezing at his heart as he remembered the many caressing touches that hand had given him, the many blissful moments of joy. He knew if he were to stretch out his own hand from where he was he would be able to reach it. His hand tingled in anticipation but he knew it was no use. He could reach for it forever but they would never touch.

_I-It's like he's hearing my voice for the first time in years..._

Romano drew a sharp, ragged breath and realisation swept over him at what had caused Spain's sudden desperation, his sudden hope. His fleeting thought about France's comment, he must have said it out loud without knowing. It made so much sense; he was forever finding it impossible keeping his thoughts from flying from his mouth in his silent vow. It was inevitable.

It was through his realisation, his accidental slip, that Romano felt the walls he had built between them, walls that were never meant to last through turmoil this great, melt into oblivion. He wanted to speak, to say something, anything, to keep the hope in the Spaniards eyes, but the stabbing pain still piercing through him kept his lips deathly silent.

"Romano!" Spain stumbled forward, out of his chair, his hand still stretching forward into the nothingness where Romano stood. His shout was filled with desperation, determination, but it was obvious he was crumbling. Romano watched, guilt now joining the pain washed through him, as Spain collapsed to his hands and knees with a loud crash. Tears began to pour down to his already stained cheeks. Agony stricken sobs tore through him, rattling and breaking the Spaniard into millions of shattered shards. He had to wrap shaking hands around his chest just to hold himself together. The cries and pleas that ripped through the house were filled with the pain and suffering of a thousand years.

"R-Romano... please..."

He was broken. His mutters were torturous. His tears were like lead as they streaked down his face. The Spain Romano had known and loved had been lost weeks ago to the dark abyss of grief. As he wept, crushed by the reality of Romano's death that always eventually came no matter how hard he pushed it away, of the loneliness that shook through him now, the Italian could feel himself cracking to pieces.

And all he could do was watch.

"Romano!" The scream slit the air, carrying all the way to the heavens. "Come back! P-please..." He trembled with the force of his words, the passion and pain that boiled within them. " I-I n-need you. I need you! I can't live without you! I...I love you. I need you... " Finally, Romano's knees gave way beneath him. He knew if he lifted his hand to his cheek, ghostly tears would be trickling down it, splashing to the floor without a sound. "Why can't I just die?!"

Spain's fist slammed to the floor, sending a deafening crash through the empty halls. Romano opened his mouth, his torn voice finally coming to him as his love for Spain superseded his own devastating pain.

"You can't die, dammit." His words were a tortured whisper, but they gained confidence as he spoke. "You can't d-die. I need _you_. I need you to live, to stay alive... to- to live. Dammit! You can't fucking die! I- I'll make sure you don't. I'll stay with you. I know you can hear me. I'll stay with you so... so you don't have to... you don't have to die."

And then, Romano uttered the two words he never thought he would ever be able to say to Spain, to his love. He couldn't even remember how many times he had wanted to.

"I'm s-sorry. Dammit... I- for... for dying. I'm so sorry."

The sobs continued to rumble through the house. Romano sat in silence and watched. Only when it was over did he speak. His words were comforting and meaningful, not like his usual harsh, empty ones. They eventually got Spain to his bed, where he slept soundly, a for once nightmare free sleep.


	6. Grief Cannot be Shared

"**Grief cannot be shared. Everyone carries it alone, his own burden, his own way." **

_**~ Anne Morrow Linbergh**_

It didn't matter that the dark grey clouds hung heavy on the horizon, threatening to roll over and unleash their long pent up rain, destroying the beauty of the day, the sun still seemed persistent on breaking through the cracks and splattering the world with dazzling light for the first time in weeks. Today was the day it was finally trying to escape the locks and chains of the dark, grey days.

And only as the bursts of sunlight spread gently over the streets of the town, did it occur to Romano how truly distant the world seemed. It was like walking through a dream. He was detached from the world, detached from reality, only ever partially there, only there in spirit. The bustling market place was real, stalls upon stalls lining the edges of the narrow street, all with colourful awnings hanging over them to protect the owners from the foretold rain, glimpses and flashes of magnificent colours, fruits, clothes, flowers, all for sale on the promising day, and the crowds of busy people shoving past through the narrow streets, always wanting to get somewhere, always desperate to be served first. But Romano wasn't with them, not really. He lay on a different frequency, seeing the lively street with its beautiful variety of colours and the ever busy citizens, but only through a fuzzy film, a thin mist. He heard the loud shouts of the Spanish customers ordering, the angry stall owners selling ("Five for two euros!"), the constant chatter of the crowd, but it was muffled, heard only through a closed door. The smell of frying meats wafted over and a stall selling freshly cooked Paella caught Romano's eye. As the rice simmered on the stove and the meat sizzled in the pans, queues shoved to get a taste of the delicious meal. But it didn't appeal to him. The wafting smell that usually would have had him drooling just made him feel indifferent now.

But he was dead, after all. How could he expect any different?

It must have been the weeks and weeks cramped up in Spain's house that had blindfolded it from him before – this was their first time outside after all – and although it was blindingly obvious to him now, Romano could see how his constant worries over Spain had distracted him all too well.

Now the splattered sunlight bathed down upon them both, him and Spain out in the shining daylight for first time in too long. The disbelief still rattled through him, stealing his voice and rendering him speechless in his amazement. He would never understand the undying strength from in Spain, the strength to rise in the mornings, get dressed, have a shower, and now actually leave the house. Never in his most suffocating nightmares could Romano imagine the agony Spain was going through, never could he even think about how he could exist without the love of his life. To him, Spain's strength was a gracious miracle.

No matter how hard Romano tried, he couldn't stop his lips from curving into a small smile as he watched the Spaniard and his new found strength. The fact that were even outside brought a new found joy bubbling up inside of him.

_A fucking joke, that's what it is. I thought I was supposed to be stuck in that fucking house forever._

The gratitude that had flooded through Romano as he exited the house was too much to hold onto. He wanted to thank someone, anyone, whoever who could, for the amazing miracle, the happiness fluttering in the chest glowing hotter than he thought he could feel. He had only assumed he was like the ghosts in all those stories he had heard, where they were tied hopelessly to one house, usually the house where they had died in, like a body buried underground, forever trapped, doomed to haunt it without ever having the relief of being seen.

But he was outside now. _Outside! _The boiling worry had evaporated instantly as the suns patchy rays had hit his dead skin. Even if it did seem pitifully trivial compared to the troubles he had been having, it was still a relief to know the truth, to know the answer to the question that had burned the back of his mind since he had died. Nowadays, he tried to hold onto any slither of happiness he could have.

Although now that he was out, only new unanswered questions sprouted in his mind. If he wasn't tied to Spain's house, he must be tied to something else, mustn't he? The Italian wondered absentmindedly what it could be, whether he was tied to anything at all and everything he knew about this sort of afterlife was all simply a story in his mind. Or maybe he was tied to Spain himself, whether he would be forever doomed to trail along behind his love as he went through his life, never to be seen, never to leave his side, even when he found new love...

He could honestly think of worse fates for the dead.

"What should I have for dinner?"

Spain's question sliced coldly through Romano's thoughts. He blinked back to reality to find him and the Spaniard had stopped beside a colourful fruit stall as Spain half-heartedly admired the variety of fruits and vegetables displayed in front of him. He was wearing a large straw, summer hat, much like the ones he once wore in the tomato fields, which hung low over his eyes so as no one could see his broken face. In one hand he carried a straw bag, ready for all he would to pile into it from his shopping endeavours.

But it was tone of Spain's question that caught Romano's attention, the only clear thing in this chaotic, blurred world. It was weak, fragile, trembling under the enormous pressure, as though he was going to snap at any moment.

"_Promise me you won't stop talking."_

Spain desperate words flitted once again through Romano's mind, his final plea for help before he had left the house, one of the only times he had spoken to Romano directly since his death.

He had made a solemn promise and now he was completely breaking it, too caught up in his own absurd thoughts to worry about how Spain was coping. He looked at the fruit stall, desperately seeking something to say.

"About fucking time you bought some food. How long has it been since you last ate? A year? Ten years? I mean, how can you not fucking eat? It's a natural instinct!" A sigh. "Okay...well you obviously have to buy tomatoes. That's the one ingredient you _always _need in your fridge. And look how fucking cheap they are! They're never that cheap this time of year. They must some mutant, alien tomato or something." He let out a defeated, humourless laugh.

Spain grabbed a plastic bag and began counting the bright red tomatoes into it. "I know! If you're getting tomatoes, you should make _Spaghetti alla Romano_. You know how I used to make it? The most delicious spaghetti you ever tasted of course. But you're going to need some other stuff as well. Some spaghetti, obviously, onions, olives, basil..."

As Romano ticked off his list off ingredients one by one, Spain hunted around the narrow streets of the market for each of them. With a sense of purpose around him, the Spaniard seemed to lighten, as though the distraction had brushed off a heavy weight from his shoulders, if only temporarily. His sunken demeanour, one so obvious in a crowd of cheerful, chattering people, the trembling weakness that had been holding him so tightly had released, allowing him to gain his strength back ounce by ounce.

Spain followed Romano word for word the entire way, with the Italian always trailing one step behind. Every time Spain followed his orders the amazement that squeezed Romano's heart only shot up more. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud in disbelief. Spain was listening to him. Spain never listened to him. He was... dead. It was like – no matter how cliché – a wish come true to him.

The hope was almost too much to contain.

Hours later, as the blazing sun finally drifted behind the dark clouds to be sealed from the world for another day, the delicious smell of cooking food drifted out of the windows of Spain's locked up house. Birds were drawn by the smell, interested for once in the so often dead house. They perched on the window sills, chirping their songs, flicking their tails, searching hopefully for even the slightest morsel of food.

The house was relatively silent though, only broken by the quiet sound of simmering sauce. Romano lent carefully on the work top in front of Spain, watching the man as he slowly worked in preparing his meal, every now and then casually slipping in some advice on what he should be doing.

"Keep an eye on that, dammit! You can't let it burn or the whole meal will be ruined." Spain followed obediently. "Alright... now chop the olives. They need to go in next."

Spain quickly stirred the bubbling sauce once more before placing the spoon down and turning to the chopping board beside it. He stood right in front of Romano now, closer than the Italian had been to Spain in too long. Romano couldn't stop his cheeks from flushing bright red at the proximity.

He didn't dare tear his eyes away though, studying the Spaniard closely up and down, and as he did, his blush began to fade. Spain's eyes stared straight down, focused on the chopping board, with the rim of the hat he still wore covering them intently so Romano was blocked from their beautiful, forest green.

But the rest of Spain was blindingly apparent. It made Romano frown that he had not noticed Spain's tragic appearance before. He was skinny, more so than was natural. His cheeks were hollow and pale on his face and his ribs protruded prominently from beneath his white shirt. When he stood, it was huddled over and, now that he was close, Romano could see he was very slightly trembling, as though simply standing had drained all the energy from him, as though he had nothing left to keep him going.

_He has me, dammit._

Romano's lips became a white, thin line, determination already at the tip of his tongue.

"H-hey. You know... y-you looked... today, at the-the market... you l-looked really... h-hansom..."

Romano's timid voice trailed off into silence as his cheeks suddenly turned bright red. He buried his face in his hands, whether Spain could see him or not.

"N-not that I-"

A thunderous slam cut Romano off. It echoed through the house and sent Romano high in the air in fright. The large knife Spain had been chopping with was stuck precariously in the chopping board, handle up, shaking from side to side at the sudden impact.

"This isn't right!"

Spain's shout send a jolt through Romano, making him stumble back a few paces in shock.

"I-I can't do this..."

Whatever was left of Spain crumpled in an instant, the last of his spurring energy he had gained this morning draining from him. He collapsed onto the work top, his hands sprawling out and knocking a mess of objects onto the floor, not that he cared. His hat covered his perfect face so Romano could not see, but he knew the silent tears were streaking down his cheeks. He had finally snapped.

Romano was struck speechless by the suddenness of it, unable to comprehend how someone could crumble so fast into nothing. He watched in stunned silence as the Spaniard turned his head and attempted to lift himself back up, arms trembling with the crushing pain, but froze as his eyes landed on the knife. He lifted his arm slowly, as though with the last of his strength, and pulled roughly it from the chopping board. He stood up carefully on shaking legs, his eyes never leaving the knife, and held it up dangerously close to his face, whatever care he had left about his own life vanishing instantly. He ran a slow, gentle finger down the blade. A bead of bright red blood appeared from the fresh cut and trickled down his finger. His expression was unreadable, shattered as the heart buried deep within, but his eyes stared at it in longing way, like that of a man who had snapped from the pressure of reality, of a man who had long ago given up caring their life and only wanted a quick, easy way out of the world.

_Fuck._

It took a moment for Romano's mouth to catch up with his mind.

"Shit! No! Fuck, Spain! You can't!" His fingers fell straight through the blade as he reached for it. Panic and desperation squeezed his heart. There was nothing he could do.

Spain eyes lifted lazily from the blade to the empty space that Romano's voice filled, much too slowly for Romano's panicked state of mind. They didn't focus, only stared into the nothing where the dead man stood. Romano's breathing was heavy with dread.

"For fucks sake! Put the knife down, dammit! Your fucking s-scaring me," Romano screamed to him. Even in his unresponsive state, Spain was able to flinch. But he still held the knife terrifyingly close to his face.

_He's going to do it. He's going to do it. He's going to do it._

"Fuck! Please Spain. You can't fucking do this! You... you're so strong... you- Oh for fucks sake! Do it for me!"

Something changed in Spain's eyes, the angst and depression dimming for a moment as Romano's words hit him.

"Just because I'm fucking dead-" Spain flinched and screwed his eyes shut. "-doesn't mean I would want you to do... to do... THAT! Dammit, I _don't _want you to. So fucking stop and think! Please... just don't do it." Romano found he was unconsciously shaking his head. His heavy breathing cut the threatening silence. He was trembling, the fear and adrenaline coursing through him so strong he couldn't stop. His and Spain's faces were literally inches apart, but the Spaniard still couldn't see his flushed cheeks.

Then, without warning, Spain lowered the knife. His eyes lowered too, and, with a long, heart-wrenching sigh, continued chopping the remaining olives that hadn't been shoved to the floor. Romano was left shaking on his own, staring at the space Spain's eyes had once been. Then the relief hit him in a tremendous wave and he sunk shakily to the floor, his legs unable to hold him. A breathless laugh slipped through his lips. He didn't even try to stop the smile of relief that spread across his face.

He ignored the feeling that dreaded pooled in his stomach that this would not be the last time he would have to convince Spain not to do harm to himself.

* * *

**Hey guys! Another chapter up! Hope you like it! Remember to leave what you think of it in the reviews. Pretty please!**

**Just a few things. Starting school again soon (great .) so it might get a bit frantic, but hopefull I'll be able to keep up with schedule and everything. And also, I wish everyone good luck in their year at school! Hope it's fun!**

**And thank you thank you so much for all your amazing reviews! They mean so much to me ^_^ And all you followers (wow theres so many) Its amazing to know so many people are enjoying my story so thank you!**


	7. And Everything Collapses

"**It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was only in bud yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a draw... and everything collapses." **

_**~ Colette**_

The sky was white. The pure, blinding white of a cloudy haze, not of sunshine, bleaching out all others colours from view, making it impossible to look at without burning your eyes. It gave the world a sort of monotonous feel, nothing was special, everything the same. It reflected perfectly the endless days Romano spent suffering in the shadow of Spain's pain.

Spain was sprawled out across his bed, forever lying there, lifeless, perfectly still as though there was nothing left inside to go on. Everything within him had died and been buried with the love of his life. He stared at the ceiling with the blank, expressionless face that he endlessly wore, empty as the flat sky above, but his perfect green eyes becoming a window into all the torture he had suffered.

Romano was indignant. He scowled at the crumbling Spanish man, arms crossed, tapping his foot unknowingly, soundlessly. He was silent. He was thoughtful.

_Why won't he fucking listen to me?_

Romano couldn't count the infinite amount of times he had spoken to the grieving Spaniard, the amount of times he had attempted to crack through Spain's impenetrable barriers, the doors of solitude, of lonely, miserable depression he had built up around himself, blocking out everything that tried to break through it. His friends, France, Prussia, Belgium, Austria, had all struggled to get to him, but their many fruitless attempts were like the whisper of frost lost against a dead man's cheek.

Romano was all he had now, the only one he would even dare to respond to, not matter how rare, how blissfully perfect those moments were, when he responded to his desperate pleas for acknowledgment. It was fleeting, never direct, never enough to allow him a peak into Spain's pain twisted mind, but always enough to draw hope in his amazement.

But he still was no closer, never any closer, to ever understanding why Spain treated him as though he was dead. Whenever he felt as though they had taken a step forward, something disastrous would happen, and they would fall right back to the beginning again, deep into his dark abyss of pain. It almost undid him, watching in desperation as Spain sealed himself from the world, from the crushing truth of reality, from Romano.

Hurt and pain splintered through the Italian at Spain's blatant denial of his existence. It was simply another of the infinite reminders that he was in fact dead, a fleeting spirit on the face of the earth, nothing more than an invisible, agonizing nuisance. He shouldn't even be here. His existence was more of mystery – or a miracle – to him than it was to anyone.

Spain was the only thing that he could hold onto. Spain was alive. Spain was real. Spain was the only thing kept him from slipping away into insanity, from slipping into the truth of death, forever alone to face whatever fate held for him.

But if not even the only thing that brought him into reality couldn't even accept his existence, then maybe he wasn't real, maybe this was all nothing, maybe this was all in his head... but...

_I fucking hate philosophy. It makes my brain hurt._

Romano held strong, keeping all of the incriminating thoughts buried deep inside him. He couldn't show Spain. He had to keep himself falling apart.

He still had to know why though...

"Spain..." Romano's voice was hesitant, unsure how to approach what he wanted to say, unsure whether Spain would even respond.

"Spain... please..."

He didn't respond. He only lay in the bed, curled up into a self protected ball of agony, nothing ever breaking in through his barriers, nothing ever coming out. The hurt flared up again in Romano's cracked heart, at Spain's dismissal, at the obvious torture that was his life now.

Not able to bare Spain's expressionless face suddenly flaring up in pain whenever Romano spoke, when the hurt and desperation that piled on his shoulders now was so prominent in his voice, he only wanted try one more time. He wasn't expecting anything anyway. Spain never responded.

"Spain..."

"No."

Romano blinked, surprised. He was silent for a moment, then spoke again, louder than before, suddenly spurred on by the flicker of hope.

"Spain-"

"No!"

"For fucks sake, just listen-"

"Just shut up, okay?!"

Romano's easily ignited temper was sparking again. He couldn't help it. He didn't want to be angry, to heartlessly yell at someone who had suffered so much, it just really grated at his nerves when anyone was this blatantly rude to him, when they wouldn't even listen to what he had to say.

"Why won't you fucking listen to me?!" he growled, finally voicing his desperate question, keeping his voice low in an attempt to stop himself from snapping.

It was Spain who snapped first.

"I can't fucking listen to you! If I listen to you, it would mean I would've finally cracked. If I listen to you it means I would have let everything get the better of me, I would have let your... his..." Spain shook his head violently, angry at his mistake. He took in a deep, trembling breathe and continued, just as loudly, just as full of agony and tears. "If I listen to you it would mean I'd have gone completely crazy! France and Prussia, they wouldn't want that... you- him... he wouldn't want that. I can't let that happen!"

Crushing silence engulfed the house, painfully stinging after Spain's desperate screams. Romano stared at him in speechless shock. His arms were unfolded and his mouth hung open. He didn't dare tear his eyes from the broken mess of a Spaniard that had spoken the words. It took a moment for his mind to catch up in his foggy state of shock.

So that was why... It made so much sense-

Three loud bangs cut violently through Romano's thoughts. He jolted in surprise, cursing under his breath, immediately jerking his head to the source of the interruption: the front door. Spain responded with similar disdain as a loud groan of hate escaped through his lips. It carried on through the echoing silence, quickly morphing into a torturous scream before suddenly dying away, leaving the silence to snap shut on them once again.

The knocks echoed out again, softer now, but still just as intrusive. Romano could only shake his head in disbelief, crushing disappointment scorching through him, slumping in sudden fury. This couldn't be happening. There couldn't be someone here. Why now? Why this exact moment? He was finally getting somewhere with Spain, finally able to communicate with him, understand what he was going through, why he persisted on never acknowledging Romano, always ignoring his every action, his every word, and this bastard had to come and ruin it.

_Just my fucking luck..._

A voice murmured from down the hall, muffled and quietened by the door, the words only just distinguishable. Only, Romano found he didn't understand any of it, picking up just small meaning here and there. They were speaking in Spanish.

It took Romano a moment to realise where he recognised the voice from. It was Spain's boss, the sympathetic colleague who had treated Spain with upmost respect, as friend not an inferior, on his last and only visit. But that tone of voice was deflated now as he spoke through the door. His words were rushed and his tone was formal, more business like. The desperation that leaked into it was clear.

"– Italia!"

At the mention of his name, Romano suddenly snapped up, ears pricked to every word. He was talking about him. But what was he saying? The Italian cursed to himself that he had not paid attention to the words before; maybe he would have been able to work at least the basis of it out.

He looked to Spain in hope for some sort of context, a small translation.

The Spaniard was on his feet when Romano's eyes landed on him, oblivious of the astonishment that rattled through Romano, out of bed, still only half dressed in the same clothes he had worn for days, but fully alert and trained to his boss's muffled words. The silence had swallowed them again as the Spanish mumbling ceased and a there was a few seconds of worry that the man had left as quickly and silently he had come. But they began again and Spain was quick to respond, grabbing any random coat from his hanger, throwing it on over his current clothing and rushing suddenly to the front door.

It was a moment before Romano could comprehend what had happened, and even then his mind was still hazed in a fog of disbelief. He jogged after Spain, running over and over through his mind the sudden events of the last few seconds. Not even his owns words had gotten Spain out of his bed that fast, out of his icy fortress of locked up pain.

It must be more important than Romano had anticipated. Maybe it wasn't even about him. Spain's boss had only mentioned the country in general. There was every likelihood it could be about his brother.

_Veneziano... _

Romano stopped dead in his tracks. The sudden guilt hit him like the piercing sting of a gunshot. He opened his mouth but nothing came out and for a moment he was lost in this world, his mind only filled with his brother and the shame that came with it. He buried his head in his hands and let out a moan, filled thick with self hate. It was all he could do not to cry.

How could he do this, to his own brother above all people? How could he just forget about his own family? After everything Veneziano had done for him, he had just shoved him to the back of mind like a worthless piece of junk. He must be fits right now, sobs of grieving, the agony of reality at having lost his brother. Romano knew he would be broken if he had lost Veneziano. And yet, he had even given him a second thought since the funeral. Romano didn't think it was possible to hate himself more.

"España." The gruff voice of Spain's boss drew Romano reluctantly from his ravine of guilt. He looked up slowly to see the front door open for the first time in so many uncountable weeks, Spain on one side, his boss on the other, an untold barrier of bitter indifference formed between them. They greeted each other as old acquaintances, nodding, not even a smile appearing on their lips. The situation was too grim for anything more.

Romano drew himself up, feeling the matter at hand was a good enough distraction from the shame that still rattled painfully through him. He walked over until he stood not inches behind Spain, leaning over his shoulder for a better view of the situation. The Spaniard still held his so well-practiced, emotionless mask on his face.

"Come on Spain, you can't fucking let him talk in Spanish. He's talking about me! It's only fair that I can understand the conversation too."Romano tried to force his usual anger and irritability into his words, but somehow they sounded only pathetic to his ears. His so often effective escape from his pain of swearing and cursing complaints at every small thing that came his way didn't even work this time.

Spain swallowed hard and nodded robotically back to his boss.

"_Hola_... Just tell me why you're here, please. You said something about R-R..." Spain swallowed and a flicker of pain leaked into his expression. "A-about... ah... _him."_ It took all Spain had to keep his voice from cracking on the last word.

His boss simply give him a confused look.

"¿Por qué habla Inglés?"

"I'm speaking English because I want to," Spain answered, his voice rigid and impersonal, obvious irritation leaking into it that his boss was stalling. For once, gratitude flowed through Romano that Spain _was_ able to hear him.

The older man bristled at Spain's directness but said no more on the matter. Instead, he opened his briefcase and searched through it briskly. He drew out a single sheet of paper and handing it directly to the Spaniard. Spain took it but made no move to read what was written on it. His eyes never left his boss.

"It says there is a meeting being held the day after tomorrow," his boss began in a thick, gruff Spanish accent, whatever friendly sympathy had been in his voice earlier now vanishing in place of business. The words sounded rehearsed, robotic, as if performing on stage a dreadful play. His expression was as colourless as the sky. "You must attend. The whole of the EU is attending. They are determining what to do about the welfare of Italy now that Romano is dead."

Spain visibly flinched away at the words, lowering his eyes to hide the spasm of pain flickered across his face. Anger began to bubble up in Romano at Spain's boss' blatant stab at his own colleague, scowling at him with a deathly glare. He wondered if he imagined the flicker of guilt that crossed the man's face, but when he checked back it was still a frozen, impersonal mask.

"I will pick you up at noon tomorrow for the flight to Rome. You will be ready. I will not take no for an answer."

Spain's boss didn't wait for a reply. He turned away in dismissal and walked to his car in tense silence, only the sound of footsteps on gravel breaking through it, leaving behind the shattered Spaniard, leaving him to soak up the information with no chance for his say, frustration and pain lapping at the edges of his numb world, leaving him to sink back into the endless, dark abyss of his fragile mind.

The door closed with a click. Romano couldn't contain the anger that skittered through him at his mistrust of Spain's heartless boss.

* * *

**So... yeah.**

**Thank you so so much to all you amazing people who reviewed my story and an extra thank you to those you favourite it too. I love you guys so much. 3 3 Thank you for always being there ^_^ **

**(Is it me, or do I sound like I'm leaving? Maybe it's just because I'm going back to school. )**


	8. Can Their Griefs Really be Genuine?

"**If my neighbours manage to survive without killing themselves, without going mad, maintaining an interest in political parties, not yielding to despair, resolutely pursuing the fight for existence, can their griefs really be genuine?" **

_**Osamu Dazai**_

It was a slow and painful three hours before they arrived in Rome. His boss had knocked on their door at noon sharp to collect the Spaniard. Romano had protested, shouting and pleading with Spain that he was not ready for this, but he had still obediently gotten ready, barely holding steady with the little energy and strength he had left in him.

Spain had remained in dark silence the entire way, not a single word ever passing his lips. He was oddly distant; his grieving silence detached him from the world. He responded to no one, not the stewards on the plane, not his own boss, only staring out window, finding distraction in the fluffy, grey clouds as they floated beneath the plane, in the blinding yellow orb that perched in the sky, lighting the world below. When the window was not in view, his feet became the only suitable replacement.

His expression was unreadable, as cold and hard as the silence that he drew himself into, unchanging on his face. His eyes pooled with unreachable pain.

"_Promise me you won't stop talking."_

Oddly, Spain's desperate comment from so many days ago persistently flickered through Romano's mind. He couldn't escape the feeling that his words applied now more than ever.

So Romano never stopped. Words flowed from his mouth in a never ending water fall, always commenting on anything and everything that came to his mind, in a desperate attempt to let Spain keep his sanity while he was not alone. It was only when the Spaniard was able to lock himself into his hotel room and collapse on the bed with a load groan, could the Italian trail off into silence as Spain succumbed to the horror of sleep.

That night, as the darkness scuttled over the elegant capital Romano had once called home, the Italian wondered why he wasn't happy. He was back in his city, the place where he belonged, yet something inside of him just didn't want to settle.

He found his thoughts always drifting back to one inevitable thing: his brother. No matter how many times his mind turned to Veneziano, the guilt would still smash into him, just as hard, just as shameful.

He wondered aimlessly what his brother had done with his life now that Romano was gone. Had he had become like Spain, stumbling in the deep depths of pain and grief, his days empty, his nights torturous, or had he simply carried on with his life after hearing the news, forcing aside his grief and living on for all that he could? That thought sent a twang of pain shooting through Romano.

But his mind would not tear away from the ever relentless question of whether Veneziano could hear him or not. It made sense that if Spain, the love of his life, could hear him, that he should still hold some sort of connection with his brother. It gave him hope, if only a spark, that he would be able to converse with his own family again, comfort him, laugh with him, tell him how much he had missed him, how much he loved him. It was one of many on the long list of things he had always regretted leaving behind untouched in the world of the living.

Romano's thoughts were shattered by a tearing scream that pierced through the silence. He could only frown in worry at the writhing Spaniard, tossing and turning, agony etched into the contours of his face.

This night had been worse than most for Spain, stuck in a strange hotel room with nothing for familiar comfort. The screams tore through him, excruciating cries of agony in Romano's name, trapping him as he suffered through the endless hours of the mind twisting dreams. They woke him several times, screaming and panting desperately, eyes wide with fright before reality came crashing down upon him once again. Romano was always there to offer him comforting words, not his usual harsh, biting ones, even when Spain begged him, half asleep in a dazed state, not to make him go back into that nightmarish hell.

It was a miracle he was able to get out of bed the next morning, let alone attend a meeting about the death of the one he loved.

_I don't know how much more he can of take this, dammit._

The meeting itself was a rush at first, all the countries of the EU squeezing into one small hotel meeting room, jostling and pushing to find their seats, lingering around the edges to catch up with those they had not seen in years. Romano found himself standing beside the open door, watching as the countries crowded into the room. It felt like years had swept by since he had last seen some of them, the people that he used to call friends, and it squeezed his heart upon seeing them again. Every person held a solemn mask upon their face.

Someone at the front called for silence and crowds hushed, all those still standing taking their appropriate seats. Romano found his place behind Spain, standing rigidly, hands tightly on Spain's chair. Here he had a clear view of the entire meeting.

But it was only one person that caught his eye. Sitting opposite from him and Spain, eyes screwed shut, face buried in his hands, was his brother. His fingers gripped his ginger hair, tearing desperately at it with unbearable stress. He looked fragile, as though life had sapped every inch on strength from him, as though a simple gust of wind could send him toppling over. He was balancing on a delicate edge, likely to snap at any moment, from a simple comment, an agonising memory. Romano only wished he could see his bright, cheerful eyes once again, but a horrible feeling swept over him that the never ending sparkle his brother's eyes had always held had vanished completely.

Something in Romano's chest splintered at the heart-wrenching sight, a new, empty hole forming with the guilt and pain that shot through him. It almost led him that last step over the edge, slipping off until he was falling, falling into insanity.

A sudden urge filled Romano to shout out to Veneziano, to grab his attention. It was all he could do not to follow it. He was desperate, the worry and anxiety knowing inside of him, desperate to know whether his brother could hear him or not, whether he would be able to voice the worries, all the regrets, building up inside of him. But he kept silent. He knew that no one would talk to himwhile so many people were around. He would have to wait until after the meeting, when they were alone.

Words were passed, mainly about his own death, minutes were read, and the meeting commenced. Romano could only watch as they discussed sombrely, heartlessly, about the welfare of his country, his people, the future that it was to take now that he had been wiped from the world. Some commented officially, their voices rigid, monotonous, not daring to touch the most delicate of subjects hanging heavy in the air, others only said a few words, only a simple yes or no here or there, trying to hide the pain and sorrow that lay thick in their voices. Neither Spain nor Veneziano uttered a word. They were silent as the graveyard, staring only downwards in an effort to keep themselves from breaking.

The meeting was worse than Romano thought it would ever be. Any hopeful optimism, any strength that he had had at the beginning slowly trickled from him as the meeting continued, his at first unsure frown sinking lower and lower into heartache as time ticked by. A grey cloud began settling over him, lonely depression seeping through him as the realisation dug into his heart that the world really was moving on, learning to survive, to cope without him being there. It was unsettling to watch.

But he only had to lay his eyes on Spain to understand that none of it mattered compared to the agony _he_ was suffering. He shoved his sinking feelings to the back of his mind and pushed on in a desperate attempt to keep the Spanish man from cracking. He stayed deathly true to his previous promise, never stopping his constant flow of words for longer than necessary.

"All these people look so fucking bored, dammit. Who knew a meeting about only me could be so boring. They need to do something fun, have a party or something, bring some wine, invite lots of girls- Ah fuck! Even eyebrows over there is bored, talking to France like he doesn't give a shit. He should be more respectful! I mean, he's probably even chatting him up, and during a meeting as well. Perverted bastard!"

Another glance, this one just as nervous and unsure as the rest. England had been unable to take his eyes off Spain for almost the entire meeting, never able to look away for more than a few minutes. An always uneasy expression hovered on his face every time, as though he had committed a dirty crime but could not tell anyone for fear of being caught. He once again leant towards France, muttering a few inaudible words his way. The Frenchman simply gave England an odd look, edging away from his with no other response. A smirk wormed onto Romano's lips.

"Look at that. Completely rejected! It looks like not even France would be perverted enough to go after him and that's saying something. Maybe he could go find hope in a stripper bar or something but that's it. He could never have that elegant Italian charm that me and Veneziano have. We can hardly keep the girls off us at times. Sometimes it's just impossible to resist a girl's irresistible, hot, sexy charm- ah... but... that- that doesn't mean you're not h-hot and sexy... way more than all those girls. I mean... dammit! ... er... y-you...without even trying you... just... y-you look fucking h-hansom every... day..."

It was so brief and fleeting that Romano almost missed it in his spluttering and blushing. Only a single glance away would have snatched from the world before Romano could even lay his eyes upon it. But he hadn't. He saw it as clear as the sun on a shining day, the way the pain filled furrows and contours vanished from Spain's face as his muscles relaxed, the sweet curve that graced the edge of his lips, that smile.

Romano's breath hitched in his throat as the disbelief stuttered through him. The sight of Spain's smile, the smile that had poured bright sunlight onto even the greyest of days during his life, the smile that had tied him in blinding pain with the thought he would never see it again.

For a moment, joy and disbelief was all that Romano could feel, taking over everything he knew, lightheaded in delight. He didn't even try to hide his ecstatic grin. For a moment, it was as though the thunderous storm clouds that had darkened the world in grief and pain for so long had finally given way to the burning sun above, shining down on his numb life and brightening the infinite grey days that had slowly rolled by so far. For once everything was positive, brighter and happier than he had been for so long.

The moment was over too quickly, lasting only seconds before the dark clouds of reality covered the world once again.

It was Veneziano who crashed his bubble of shining joy, the sound of his broken, agonized voice slicing through it like hard ice. He was quiet, not able to muster more than shattered murmur as he stood for attention in front of the meeting, but it was enough to make the room silent as death. His eyes stared downwards. Romano swore they shone with tears.

"I-I can't do this. I...I'm sorry-"

A sob rattled through him, breaking the tense silence in an instant. His shoulders hunched and his hands gripped desperately at the paper lay in front of him, as if he had to grasp onto something, anything, just to keep a hold on reality, just to keep himself from falling apart.

"It's too much!"

Tears slipped down his face as he ran in hysterics from the room. The door slammed shut, echoing too loudly as everybody sat perfectly frozen in their places. No one dared to make the first move. Even Romano held his breath to the silence. He just watched the door, trying to remember how he could have felt even the slightest bit of joy in the ice cold pain he was feeling now.

It was France who cut the suffocating silence first, not saying a word but only standing and heading out the door to follow Veneziano. The door slammed again and the room erupted into devastating chatter not seconds later.

Spain, who had lifted his head only to watch Veneziano's tortured departure, muttered a few cynical words under his breath before laying his head back onto the table. Romano was too distracted to note them, not even bothering to ask what Spain had said, his first spoken words since they had left the house days before. Instead, he felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to run after his brother, one that so took a hold of him in his dazed, detached state that he was already walking to the door when his sense returned to him.

"I'm going to follow him," Romano muttered determinedly, to no one in particular, but touching Spain lightly on the shoulder to indicate he was leaving. He did not even wait for a reply. He didn't think to. He just needed to get to his brother.

The hallway was eerily silent as he walked out through the door, a ghostly sentiment trickling through it like a chilled breeze. Only soft mumbling could be heard from way away, like the whispers of those from another world, and Romano followed it instinctively, not even considering that it might not be who he sought. He knew it was.

Veneziano had only managed to get to the end of the corridor before collapsing, falling apart into broken pieces in an instant. He sat isolated on the floor, back against the wall, legs tugged into his chest with his hands wrapped tightly around them, locking himself from the outside world. His head was buried deep in his knees. No one could see his face.

No sound came from him though, his tears, his suffering, were all in absolute silence. It sent a cold chill through Romano, reminding him too much of Spain's endless, empty days and nights filled with torture. It was a desperate hope that Veneziano had not suffered the same fate, that he had not sealed himself off from the world with indestructible borders, only keeping his agonizing thoughts, the pain and loss that controlled his world, for company. He hoped that his brother had let someone, anyone, into his broken world, let them hold and comfort him, let them take at least some of the pain away, making it bearable to stand, something that Spain refused to do with all he had. He hoped someone could replace the job that Romano couldn't do now that he was gone.

That feeling of helplessness was back again, as he knelt carefully beside his grieving brother, studying him and the silent tears that streaked down his face. He could do nothing to help, nothing more than the breath of salvation lost completely in the cold, wailing wind that streaked his life at the moment. There was nothing he could do but watch, watch and pray that nothing would go wrong, everything would turn out well in the future, that he wouldn't spend the rest of his eternal days suffering for him. It was worry that gnawed persistently at Romano.

The Italian's eyes only landed on the Frenchman beside Veneziano when he spoke. He was the cause of the mumbling earlier. He was all there was to draw Veneziano from his black abyss of pain.

"Italy... no one can blame you if you say you were not ready for this."

Veneziano gave no response. He remained frozen still as France sat beside him. It only made the Romano's dread deepen.

"We all know how hard this has been for you. You only have to say and they can postpone the meeting for another week. They can't exactly have the meeting without you, can they?" France's attempt at a smile vanished almost immediately when still Veneziano said nothing to him. An anxious frown formed on his lips instead.

"Please, don't shut me out, _mon ami_. I already have that from Spain. I don't want it to happen to you too. How do you think it feels not being able to help one of your best friends through the hardest time of their life?"

_You can say that again._

The silence continued for a moment. France stared at Veneziano expectantly, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. Then the Italian stirred, finally releasing himself from his locked up chamber. He lifted his head but turned it immediately away from France, and unknowingly towards Romano. His eyes were screwed shut and he still stared at the ground so Romano couldn't know for sure what hung with in them, but the tear trails on his cheeks were more than enough to tell. It grated painfully at his heart.

And it was only as he saw his brother's face this close for the first time since his death, did Romano realise how much he truly missed him.

"I don't want to talk about it." A broken whisper. A complete dismissal.

But France was persistent, reaching out with a new tactic. He stretched his arm around Veneziano's shoulders and squeezed them tightly, comfortingly. The Italian didn't resist.

"_Italie, _what would Romano think if he were here?"

Romano froze at the mention of his name. He snapped his head up to France in shock, staring at him, studying him for any indication, any slight slip up that could show he knew. It wasn't possible for him to know he was here, was it?

"What would Romano say if he saw you this way, huh?"

"_I'd tell you to stop crying and get off your fat, lazy ass, that's what. A month is more than long enough to mourn over me. You need fucking get on with your life, dammit!"_

Veneziano sniffed and finally, slowly, as though the pain of the meeting had drained all his strength, looked over to France and smiled. It was fake, forced into place only to comfort the Frenchman, but at least it was a start, further than Spain had ever gotten.

"Ve... he'd tell me to-to stop crying, that h-he wasn't worth all the fuss..."

_Fuck. My brother knows me too well_

"...with a lot of cursing in it."

Even Romano felt a smirk curve onto his face at that.

France smiled solemnly with him and there was a moment of comfortable silence between them. They stared straight ahead into nothing, caught up in their own thoughts, their own memories, straight through the crouching Romano, as though he were nothing more than dead air. He was to them at least.

"You know, I was talking to England during the meeting. He said something that might interest you." Romano almost blanked out France completely, not remotely interested anymore in what he had to say. He almost did.

"He said he saw Romano."

"W-what?!" Veneziano and Romano's voices were synchronized, the same shock and pure disbelief rattling through them, although Romano's louder to his own ears. They snapped their heads up, ears drawn to France's every word.

"_Oui_, during the meeting. He said he saw his...ghost... I think, standing behind Spain, talking to him."

Romano felt the blood drain from his face. It was pale, as deathly white as the cold skin of the dead, his mouth hanging open, speechless in silent shock.

It wasn't possible, was it, for England – of all the people in the world – to see him, to see his ghost. Not even Spain could see him. He could only hear his voice. And now England...

Romano shook his head violently, as if that could sort the mess of thoughts scattering around in his head.

"I wouldn't believe it too much though, _mon ami. _England sees lots of... strange things all the time, things that are never real. He is very odd that way."

The loud silence echoed through the empty hotel hallways. It was all Romano could hear, that and France's words, playing over and over through his mind. No matter how many times he heard it, it still didn't seem real, it didn't seem possible. It was all just some crazy dream, a twisted joke. He wouldn't let himself believe it.

He would have to have proof first, go talk to England at least.

Romano didn't want to hope, but he couldn't stop it from sparking inside him once again.

"I'll go and tell the other countries to postpone the meeting for you." France's last words were too official for Romano's taste. He unwound his arm from Veneziano's shoulder and stood up to leave, glancing back only once in concern. The Italian gave no response.

It left Romano and Veneziano alone in the silence. This was his chance, the only time he could find out whether his brother could hear him or not. He pushed his chaotic thoughts of England to the back of his mind and spoke almost immediately as France turned the corner.

"Veneziano..."

His voice was a shaky whisper, nervous beyond the stages of comprehension. His fingers trembled, his mouth was dry. He was afraid, afraid of rejection, that his brother would only become another reminder that he was just a ghost in this blind world, that he was in fact dead.

"Veneziano, if you can hear me say something now."

Nothing.

"Please, you don't have to hide anymore, no one's here. You won't sound crazy. Just say anything to me."

Still nothing. Desperation was beginning to leak into Romano's voice.

"Say something, give me a fucking sign. I need to know if you can hear me!"

Veneziano only shivered, before slowly, painfully, with no strength to carry on, standing to his feet. He didn't even hesitant before walking off, not looking back, as though Romano wasn't even there.

And Romano was left sitting on the floor, crushed. His heart ached, too much for him to bear anymore, and he didn't stop the silent tears from slipping down his cheeks.

That familiar feeling of loneliness prickled through him, stabbing at his chest and sending another agonizing sob rattling through him. They would never acknowledge him. He was nothing to them, to anyone, an invisible nuisance trapped in the world, just a desperate flame, a memory, trying to hold onto it last ounce of fuel in the darkened world, destined to die out eventually.

The dead always had that effect.

* * *

**Long chapter... please dont hate me for it. I just really really couldnt split this chapter in two. I hope you like it anyway :) As always, thank you to all you amazing people who reviewed and favourited! I love you all!**

**On a side note, did anyone see that thing on tumblr about the meteor hitting Jupiter in place of the earth? Apparently now there is fanfictions out there about planets getting together now. Only on tumblr.**

**Anyway! Enjoy! Remember to review pretty please.**


	9. Love Leaves a Memory No One Can Steal

**"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal"**

**_From a Headstone in Ireland_**

Defeated was the only was to describe how Romano felt, although it did not do justice to it. With his deflated shoulders and dragging feet, it was more that he had given up than anything, not that that was any less degrading. He had given up on life, whatever little he had left of it, on everything, all those trivial things he had thought were so important at one time seemed meaningless now. He wouldn't play the world's taunting game any more, nothing more than a fool, in its eyes, a dangling puppet there to manipulate for its own entertainment. He wouldn't let it control him anymore.

Alone – _that word again_ – in the deafening silence of the hallway, as even his own brother walked away from him, oblivious to the destruction he had just caused, something snapped within Romano It was as if the weight of reality, the heavy test of pain, had built up so much on him that he had simply given into the pressure. His will had all but crumbled now. Everything that had been keeping him going the last month suddenly collapsed beneath him. There was nothing left. That was how it should be; he was dead after all.

As he dragged himself into the meeting room, watching with little interest as the countries of EU spilled silently through the doorway, grim and solemn at having gotten no where with this crushing meeting, to the frozen Spaniard still sitting at the table, the pure loneliness that so often shadowed him every step, that was becoming increasingly harder to push to the back of his mind, swept through him. It suffocated him, binding him in its torturous chains, and the need to talk to someone, anyone, became more choking than ever.

The words were spilling from his mouth before he even knew who was speaking, his emotions taking control of his mind, before he could even think to stop the torturous thoughts that he had kept locked up and hidden away from Spain for so long.

He confessed everything, every worry, every concern, every hope, every crushing disappointment, every twinge of pain that echoed through his heart, every thought that had ran through his head about what he was, what he was doing here, why he hadn't actually _died _when he had died, why he could only talk to Spain and no one else. He poured his heart and soul into his words, still always sounding like his usual grouchy self, knowing all too well that his heart-felled declaration would be lost to stubborn ears, lost to the world, never to be heard, as a dead man's words always are.

And as the endless words rolled off Romano's tongue, he couldn't help but feel a huge weight taken from his shoulders, the lead hands of life that had been forcing him down into oblivion lifting with a deep sigh. The relief, if only fleeting, was enough to bring a small smile to his lips, a humourless smile, the smile off one who does not wish to smile at life anymore, only at the bitter irony it brought along with it.

The nagging feeling never left his mind though. He tried not to care, he tried to ignore it, but it was incessant on tainting his confession. It was not that the words he spoke would be lost swept away like sand in the wind that bothered him, he had all but accepted his death by now, but the fact that when he stopped talking, when he ran out of speeches to give the deaf Spaniard, there would be nothing from him, not a whisper nor a sound.

His most desperate wish, as the pair walked through the hotels hallways to their room, was to banish the sickly loneliness that trembled inside of him, or, if not that, to at least subdue it to a bearable level, so it did not eat away at him every moment of the day. Just to pass a few words, a conversation, with Spain, to talk to someone who would talk back instead of being shut out and ignored like the invisible ghost he was.

He knew it was impossible though. Spain never responded.

"-what the fuck do I care, anyway? I'm dead, dammit, so what gives me the fucking right to complain. I shouldn't even be able to talk to anyone, let alone you." Romano trudged through the open doorway into their hotel room. He didn't turn around, but he heard a click behind him. He could sense his speech coming to an end. "Worthless. A fucking worthless piece of shit. I mean, I can't ever do anything. I can't help people. No one ever listens to me. No one can even hear me. What the fuck is the point of me even being here? Sometimes I wish I had just died..."

The silence seeped in around them, signalling a dark end to Romano's confession. He stood frozen, his back to the door, preparing himself for the deafening silence that was to come, that was to always shadow him in his invisible footsteps. It seemed to him it was his defining feature now.

But it was cut almost immediately by Spain himself, the first time Romano had heard his sweet voice in days. It was strained, as though he had been fighting years and years of pain and agony in just a few days, but it was still there.

"Romano, you are such an idiot."

The Italian turned quickly at the sound of Spain's voice. He was stood alone at the doorway, having not moved since he shut the door, his back to Romano, only the wavy locks of his brown hair visible.

Romano knew he should feel shocked, stunned that Spain had spoken to him directly, responded to his voice, his actions, but the feeling would not come. Instead, Romano felt the cold hand of rage grip around him. It burnt through him, tinting his tongue, his judgement, fuelled by the hurt stabbing him at Spain's spiteful comment.

But Romano didn't have time to voice his anger before Spain had turned on him, an expression of sadness, almost disappointment, on his face. He gazed at the room, his eyes never finding anything to focus on, but the certainty of his words, the certainty of who he spoke to, blazing within them.

He was changed. Romano's confession had stirred something in him, given him the strength he had been searching for for so long. His deflated demeanour, his sunken shoulders, the impression that he always wore that he had given up on life, they had all vanished completely. And his eyes, the forest green eyes that had shone with smiles whenever Romano was near_ before_, the eyes so void of anything but pain for countless weeks, something sparked deep within them, burning from the depths of his heart, something Romano thought was unreachable for years to come.

Life.

"How could you think you're worthless, Romano? How many times have I told you before that you are perfect no matter what?"

"But-"

"You're wrong!"

A laugh split from Spain lips, bitter, humourless, much like the smile he wore.

"Did you not see the faces of every person that walked into that meeting? Weren't you watching when your _brother _ran from the room in tears over you? They're mourning over you because you impacted on their lives, Romano. You gave them a reason to miss you. And how about the fact that you are a whole country-"

"Then how come I'm dead?!"

The shout was heartless, a spiteful interruption, and Romano regretted it the moment it passed his angry lips. Spain flinched at it, screwing his eyes shut to block out pain that burnt through him at the word. There was a guilt filled moment, and Spain let out a deep, agonising sigh. When his eyes opened again he stared at the ground. The glimmer of life and strength that had flashed hopefully with in them had all but vanished, leaving behind the same dull, pain filled eyes. Romano tried to ignore how they glistened with tears.

The silence stretched on. Romano continued to stare at Spain in horror as he only gazed at the floor, desperately attempting to hold himself together. The Italian begged that he would speak again, that he hadn't destroyed his only chance to converse with Spain through a single, thoughtless comment. The seconds ticked by endlessly, every tick of the clock a hammer smashing into Romano's guilt. It was too long before Spain opened his mouth to speak again.

"A-are you real?"

The question caught Romano off guard. It stirred in him, unsettling dreadful thoughts that he put to rest days ago with so many distractions, making him hesitate it his answer. He had to think hard; a straight was to answer such a simple question seemed almost impossible to him.

But Spain was waiting, patiently, albeit with a slowly growing expression of worry on his face, and he deserved an answer. Plus, Romano wanted more than anything to keep him talking to him, to make the moment last, even if it involved this.

"Y-yes." His voice was uncertain, shaky. "I'm here. I can think for myself. I-I'm real, dammit."

There was another pause, and it occurred to Romano that Spain might need an explanation as to why he _was_ here and not rotting in a cramp coffin under metres of dark soil.

"I'm a ghost."

As Romano said the simple words, something seemed to click in Spain, a revelation, shedding new light onto how he looked at the dark world outside. For a silent moment he was lost in his thoughts as they settled down to get a firm grasp on the dreamy idea, make sense of all the was happening.

And then, he laughed.

It was a laugh of relief and joy, the most beautiful sound that had graced Romano ears in weeks. It made him smile in return, not even considering hiding it with the happiness that fluttered through him. The laugh was over too soon, brief and fleeting, but Romano held onto the memory, the echoing sounds, as though letting go would cost his life – or whatever remained of it. The smile that lingered on Spain's face after it was gone only made the joy flooding through him deepen until it touched his heart. The smile reached Spain's eyes, a flash of his usual cheeriness overpowering the layers upon layers of pain. It was just like he remembered it.

But when Spain eyes landed on the empty space where Romano stood, the smile began to fade again, as quickly as it had come, and Romano knew that it was the disappointment of not being able to see the Italian, only hear him. Spain let out a sigh.

"A ghost, huh? I have to say that's a relief to hear, Roma."

_Roma..._

How long had it been since he had last been called that nickname? Months? Years? And yet, the nickname still brought the same sense of love to his heart, making it swell up and flutter in his chest as a blush crept to his cheeks. At least some things had not changed.

But it all still confused him, Spain's tone of voice, the way he stood, the relief and happiness that leaked into it, it couldn't be the same Spain that had refused to acknowledge him for countless agonizing weeks, locked himself away into the dark cave of grief, as painful thoughts and memories swirled around him, bouncing off the walls and battering him over and over. The pain was still there, but it was as though within the last few minutes the crushing ropes that had bound him in agony had been cut to ease off his pain. Not all of it though, just some.

In the last few minutes something had happened that had given Spain the strength that he had been scrabbling for for days, to try and hold onto to the world, to talk to others, accept them, force a smile onto his face, to not collapse into a sobbing mess every time someone mentioned Romano's name.

But what was it?

"R-relief? How is it a relief, dammit? I'm not really here, you know. I'm still... still..." _dead._

Romano trailed off, unable to voice the twisted word that finished his sentence. Instead, he brought out a different distraction, voicing another question that was tugging at his mind.

"Why does it matter so much that I'm a ghost anyway? I was a ghost before."

"Ah, but I didn't know then," Spain cut in remorsefully, as the memories of those times were years ago. A knowing smile slipped onto his lips. It only grated a Romano's irritation.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?!"

Spain faltered at Romano sudden anger, his smile vanishing and a surprised look flickering across his face. Well, what did he expect? His explanation was going too slowly, too cryptically for Romano's liking.

"It has everything to do with everything!" Spain whined, taking a step forward and throwing his arms out to the sides defensively. "You see, I didn't think you were a ghost because... well, I thought you were something else." He paused for a moment thoughtfully, suddenly shy about his words. He froze, the next words he was trying to say only coming out in stuttering syllables. Seconds ticked by, which turned into minutes. Romano folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently. He remained deathly silent, not wanting to push Spain any more than he could handle.

Eventually, the Spaniard closed his eyes in defeat. When he next spoke his voice was quiet, vulnerable, as a person always was when they told someone their deepest secret.

"I thought you were... a voice... in my head. A voice in my head."

Silence engulfed the room. Romano stood frozen in confused shock.

"What-"

"That's why I wouldn't listen to you Romano. I thought I was going crazy. I thought you were a voice brought on by the depression. If I listened to you, it would be accepting I had finally gone mad. If I spoke to you, I would have completely snapped. And... you wouldn't have wanted that,"

Romano stared in disbelief at Spain, replaying his broken words over and over in his mind. It made so much sense now, why he ignored Romano, why he never responded to anything Romano did or said, it was all because of this. He had never even considered that Spain could have thought of him as just a voice, he was so real in his own eyes, but if he couldn't see him, only hear what he had to say, he could understand why Spain did think it.

_What sort of voice in your head goes around complementing you though?_

Romano was hesitant to speak again, sensing there was more Spain had yet to say. He stayed silent and watched.

Spain remained sheltered, deathly silent, locking himself from the world even now, afraid that not even Romano would accept his pain.

"What made you change your mind then? What made you actually think I could be a ghost?" Romano prompted desperately, but his only answer was the silence of the room. It was a few more moments before Spain spoke again, his voice a torn whisper in the silence. His words came out slowly, as if he were thinking hard about what he said.

"I... I felt you touch me." He paused and Romano simply stared at him in confusion. The Spaniard took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. "Before you left to follow Italy, you touched me on shoulder, just... just a tap... and I felt it." He lifted his hand to his shoulder, indicating where he felt it, brushing it delicately in the memory. "It was a weird, tingling feeling... not quite real. But it was definitely there. And- and I knew you were real."

Spain opened his eyes to the empty room. He searched desperately for something to hang onto, something to confirm his theory. But the crushing disappointment again flickered across his face at the sight of nothing, as if he had hoped that his words would bring Romano into view. But it was gone in an instant and he looked down to his feet, twiddling with his fingers nervously.

Silence engulfed them again for a moment. Romano used it get a hold on himself, try to make sense of everything, all the scattered, chaos of thoughts that ran through his mind. But every time he tried to make sense of it all, the shock and the joy would flit through him again and his thoughts would disperse in place of emotion. It was as if the world didn't want him to understand, simply follow all that was happening now.

A small, sad laugh escaped Spain's lips at an old memory, cutting through Romano's dazed state.

"But see, you were good for me Romano. Hearing your voice, it was like the world was giving me a chance to get better, not tearing _everything_ away from me at one time. It took some of the pain away. Made it... bearable. And the things you said..." A glancing smile. His eyes glistened with tears. It made Romano heart squeeze. "They always gave me that tiny, little bit of happiness... especially when you said you loved me."

Romano was touched. His heart fluttered and grew with Spain's words, unable to hold the emotions flooding through him. He was speechless – nothing he could say would match Spain's beautiful words – only able to smile and laugh quietly, breathlessly, almost in relief. The locks and chains that had been pulling him down to dark depths of the abyss floor suddenly released. Now that he knew why everything had happened like he did, he felt the pain and emptiness, the craving loneliness, that had gripped him at every moment, simply melt away. It took him a moment to realise his hand was held over his heart.

"It's like you never left Romano."

Spain held his hand out with an unsure smile. This time, Romano didn't resist the anticipation to gently place his hand in Spain's. The Spaniard's smile widened.

Outside, the sun finally broke through the suffocating clouds that had held it from the world for so long, bathing the city of Rome in it's glorious rays, as shining and as bright as ever. It had broken free, opening up the patchy clouds to reveal the blue, endless sky hanging above, finally able to let the world taste the beautiful light shining from it after so long of being hidden away. The monotonous sky had vanished, blowing away with the blustering winds as the crystal blue sky came out to play.

The grey days were gone. Only bright one's lay ahead.

* * *

**TA DA! All is revealed!**

**I thought I owed you guys something happy after the chapters and chapters of sadness and depression. I hope you enjoy! And thank you everyone for your amazing review ^_^ They always make me smile on a gloomy morning!**


	10. For Both Of Us

**"As long as I can I will look at this world for both of us. As long as I can I will laugh with the birds, I will sing with the flowers, I will pray to the stars, for both of us"**

**_Sascha_**

"You mean England can _see_ you?"

The staunching heat of the summer glazed down upon them as Spain and Romano sat upon the hill. The sun beat down relentlessly, for once embracing them in the bright sunshine after so many days of cloudy darkness. It hung, white and blinding, alone in the sky, a solitary break in the endless blue, the occasional wisp of a cloud the only thing daring to penetrate the harmony. Its rays burned down on the city of Rome, on the ant sized people wondering through the tiny streets, on the glistening roofs of houses and buildings as people sought refuge beneath them from the heat. It reflected through the streets, off the rustic coloured buildings, giving the whole city a glow that only a city viewed at sunset normally had, the blazing orange of an autumn wood.

This time of day always brought out the lazy side of the city. No one was busy, no one was in a hurry, even the usual bustling Italian chatter that bounced of the walls of the streets and into the air seemed leisurely this afternoon. The heat hung heavy in the air, humid and suffocating after the days and days of cloud and rain before, tiring people out, drawing out their idle side, forcing them to hide in the shade until the day passed into the cool evening. Air conditioners blasted cold air into any and every available building.

Romano had loved the hill he sat on now for as long he could remember. It had always been there, the precious home of so many memories, somewhere he could always rely on to bring him peace of mind. He had watched his capital learn and grow from here, the perfect viewing spot to observe the beautiful city. There were so many memories of him and his brother in this idyllic spot, the green grass, the shining city below, in the blazing sun, under the shining moon. But now, it all seemed different, distant, as though he wasn't really there, as though looking at the world through frosted glass. It tainted darkly his beautiful memories of the place.

"Yes."

It was all Romano could say in answer to Spain's question; he was too distracted to keep the conversation going.

Spain groaned quietly to himself, falling back onto the ground so he stared at the sky. He ran his hand through his wavy, brown hair; something Romano knew he always did when he was stressed.

Romano's mind wondered, being drawn easily to the dramatic events of that morning. He thought of his brother and the disappointment that had choked at him in his discovery of the truth that he no longer held any connection with him. He thought of Spain, how he had confessed shakily what had been grinding at Romano's mind, desperately thinking of answers to the question, throughout the past month as Spain had persistently, painfully, denied any existence of Romano, as he had put himself through the torture and suffering of no longer having his only love by his side. Even now the Spaniard knew Romano was here, could still be with him through everything, a guardian angel – or devil – always watching, always keeping him on the right side of sanity, keeping his heart from shattering, Spain didn't seem right, still broken, still shattered, as though Romano could only provide the glue, not the hands to piece him back together.

"Why England though? What does _he _have to do with any of this?"

Spain's venom filled voice sliced through Romano's thoughts again, speaking loud, filled with all his hatred for the Brit. Romano could see he was drawing attention, near by people turning heads and giving them (or him) odd looks, as though Spain had completely lost his mind. It boiled Romano's anger at every look glanced their way; having to remind himself every time that he could do nothing to stop them – he was only a ghost after all. He would've taken a lot of pleasure in marching up to them and teaching them the true meaning of respect.

Spain didn't care though. He carried on talking to Romano as if he were the only thing that mattered in the world any more. To him, he probably was.

"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Romano said flatly, only half interested in the conversation, "France did say we shouldn't believe him."

Romano stared out across the city, still lost in his chaos of thoughts. He let out a defeated sigh, again, always, reminded with a sharp slap that the city was no longer his, no longer where he belonged, just another city in his mind, just another reminder that he was dead.

"Are you okay, Roma? You seem a little...off."

Spain's worried green eyes caught Romano's attention, for once shattering his lonesome thoughts and bringing a smile to his face at Spain's concern. He hid it behind another frown, whether Spain could see him or not.

"I don't know..."

Romano was hesitant to answer truthfully, his initial impulse to brush Spain's question casually to the side. But he was learning slowly that that was not the answer anymore. Brushing problems to the side, as if they were just dust, solved nothing, if anything it made them worse, allowing them to fester and grow until they were to painful to deal with, until there was no longer a solution. It didn't help that Spain was the only person he could talk to about it.

"Things just don't seem right... Nothing seems right. The world's moving on without me and here I am stuck as a ghost. Part of me thinks I'm not even supposed to be here."

A twang of fear flickered through Spain's expression, but it was hidden too fast for Romano to understand what it was about. Instead, the Spaniard held out his hand to Romano, his eyes unfocused, forever searching for his lost love.

"Well you are here so you must be here for a reason. My guess is that reason is me."

A small, encouraging smile spread across Spain's face. Romano felt his heart lighten at the sight. He couldn't believe how much he had taken those gracious smiles for granted. They were his salvation, a twinkling star shining in the dimming night.

But Romano stayed still, not reaching out for Spain's hand, not convinced by Spain's answer. Something inside of him told him it was wrong.

After a moment, Spain frowned, lowering his hand at Romano's silence. It was a tense moment before he spoke again.

"I wish I could touch you again," Spain muttered, failing to hide the agony in his voice as he spoke the words. "Or just to see your cute, little face blush like a tomato one more time, or your sweet smile, or your eyes... Memories just seem pathetic compared to the real you."

Romano felt his face flush bright red, hiding his smile in the irony of Spain's words. It was nice to hear him voice those thoughts, the same ones that Romano had wished every moment of his ghostly life, the wishes that had been pulling at his dreams since _it _had happened, the delicate whispers of hopes that had circled tauntingly around him. It made him realise how much it ached in him not to have those simple things, simple things that all couples should have, to look into each other's eyes, to hold each other's hands.

Although, they could hardly be called a couple anymore.

_Until death do us part..._

It at least let him know that Spain still felt the same way about him that he always had. Romano still couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

"Me t-too," Romano stuttered, his voice quiet in the irrelevant chattering of the people that surrounded them on the hill. He closed his eyes and desperately tried to bring back the memory of their last and final kiss, the way it had felt, Spain's soft lips against his own, the way their tongues danced together, the amazing feeling of infinite warmth and love that had always spread through him with every one of his sweet kisses, chaste or not, the disappointing briefness of it in such a rushed moment. If it were up to him he would have stayed in Spain's arms forever. It seemed a too distant memory now. It physically tore at him how much he missed it.

And he would never be able to feel it again.

Romano shook his head, not able to handle the pain that tore through him with the damning thoughts. He tried to turn back to his original thought track, he tried to think of any possible reason for him to still be here in the world. It was a good enough distraction – _for now at least_.

No, he knew his purpose here couldn't be Spain alone, it just didn't feel right to him. Why would they put him here just to help ease someone's grief, when it had been cause by him leaving in the first place? It had to be something else, something more complicated, something that involved his past life, his wishes, his dreams, his goodbyes...

An idea began to sprout, grow and form in his head, like the branches and leaves of a tree growing ever higher, ever wider, ever more twisted and complicated. What if... Maybe...

He heard Spain sigh from beside him, obviously put off by Romano's thoughtful silence. When the Italian looked over to him again he lay on the grass peacefully, his eyes closed, his hands resting gently on his stomach, breathing softly in the warm sunshine. A siesta, probably what most of the city's population below was doing as well.

Romano stared at him thoughtfully, his original idea seeming more and more plausible the more he thought about it, letting it twist and shape in his mind until it seemed the only reasonable explanation to him. Seeing Spain like this, so content and peaceful – at least compared to how he was before – able to sleep without nightmares, able to talk and open himself up, able to leave some of that pain behind, made it root all that more in his mind.

It was plausible at least, and, considering it was his best idea yet – his only idea – as to why he was here in the first place, it made sense for him to follow it. Besides, something inside of him just told him he was right.

He thought that perhaps he was here simply to make closure, to give himself and all those around him a peace of mind after what had happened, to say his final goodbyes to all that had suffered so much from his sudden death.

It settled his mind. Having a reason, a purpose in life, giving him something to hope for, something to live for. It was better than being an invisible nuisance, dragging forever behind Spain as a shadow to his grief.

He let a satisfied smile slip onto his face.

* * *

**Yet another not (too) sad chapter coming from me. WHAT IS THIS SORCERY?! **

**But anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter and that, even though it was pretty short compared to the others, you still loved it and felt the need to leave awesome reviews behind because they just make me feel so happy all the time ^_^**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed and favourited and even ****_read _****this for in the story because I seriously love you all for supporting me so much and without you, this story would be no where. Thank you all! *gives out free love and cookies and rainbows an happiness***

**And another thing, a lot of you are asking about how Romano died. I'm afraid I am not liable to tell you at this point. Might ruin the surprise ;)**


	11. I Can Understand

**"Let me come in where you are weeping, friend and let me take your hand. **

**I who have known a sorrow such as yours, can understand" **

**_~ Grace Noll Crowell_**

Three days rushed by in minutes to Romano, every day seeming the same as the next, as monotonous as the endless sky above, always calm in the presence of all that was happening. The days themselves seemed to travel in endless loops. They were on the hill, always content, calming, bringing him peace on even the most chaotic of days, and when the sun began to set and the stars began to sparkle in the dark, blackness of the sky, they would leave for the hotel, for another night of nightmarish sleep, empty hours ticking by one after another, torturous screams tearing through the darkness, then Spain would wake and leave again, attempting to explore the wonders and the cultures of the city of Rome, but always some how ending up on that same hill again. It had become his safe spot, the only place he could feel content in his loneliness, familiar compared to the rest of the city, not cramped up in small, stuffy hotel rooms, the only place where Spain felt comfortable to talk to Romano freely. Usually they just gazed out across the view, talking about anything and everything that came across their minds. At times, it almost seemed like the old days. Almost.

They were never disturbed here; only Romano and Veneziano knew about this spot, only they knew of the gentle breeze and the soft grass, how it could turn even the tightest pull of stress and pain into something bearable, if only for a little while.

"Spain?"

Both Spain and Romano turned from where they sat at the sound of his name. Their eyes were immediately drawn to the man behind him, with his ginger hair and soft amber eyes, hardened after so many days of unbearable grief. He stood, worn from the endless pain, his usual smile vanished in the empty frown that hung on his face, staring intently at Spain. Something close to anger and hurt flickered across his face. Romano couldn't stop the guilt from pooling in him. He was hurt, hurt about his death, about the meeting, hurt that he couldn't grieve alone on _their _hill.

"V-Vene-"

"What are you doing here?" Veneziano snapped, not trying to hide the pain that leaked into his voice. It sounded tired, exhausted, already ready to give up on life, already tired of suffering through so much pain.

Romano looked to Spain in desperation. The Spaniard simply stared out across the view, a bored look upon his face.

"You have to say something Spain! You can't just ignore him, he's my brother. He's hurting just as much as you are, dammit!"

A spot of guilt flickered across Spain's face, but he made no move to answer Veneziano's question.

"Tell him I told you about this place. You can't just fucking ignore him, dammit!"

Veneziano sighed behind them, defeated, too easily giving up on what he wanted. He slowly walked round to Spain's other side, gently taking a seat on the grass, joining him in staring out across the view. It seemed as though he had already given up, the anger deflating from him already in his grieving state. He had no energy left to fight; everything had already been sapped from him. Romano felt his heart crack painfully at seeing his brother in such a state.

"Romano told me about this hill once. He told me about the peacefulness, about how beautiful it is. I never expected it to be so true." Romano didn't know whether it was mention of his name or some memory that bore into him, but Veneziano physically winced at the Spaniard's words, cutting through him like a cold dagger. When he next spoke, his voice was broken, tortured into agony. Romano could see tears glistening in his eyes.

"It really is beautiful, isn't it?"

The silence stretched out around them, only severed by the floating voices of other people that sat on the grassy hill with them, or the distant sound of traffic flaring up from below in the city, or the wind gently rustling in the near by trees. It was tense for Romano, the painful memories, the guilt, the agonising loneliness all washing into him in crushing waves. He tried to ignore it, push it to the back of his mind where he did not have to think about it, but just looking at Veneziano brought everything back. He wanted a distraction. He wanted someone, anyone, to break the silence, but they were persistent. It seemed like hours before someone spoke. It could have been for all he knew.

"There's something I wanted to ask you Spain."

"What?"

Neither looked at each other, detaching themselves from the conversation they were both indulged in, both suffering through the same pain.

"Before, during the meeting, France... he told me that England could see... er... R-R... _him.._. His ghost, I think... I was wondering if maybe..." He trailed off into silence, nervous, unsure, careful to approach the next words.

Romano blinked, stunned. He couldn't believe it. It had to be a coincidence. Veneziano had never been this clever. The hope that fluttered inside of him, glowing like a lamp in unbearable hours of darkness, was enough to bring a small smile to his lips, the hope to at least talk to his brother, if that was all he could do, converse about everything and anything like they had done before, all the worries that grated at Romano, the dying words he had left hanging his mouth before his death, the words he never said enough – _I love you_. He wanted to worry about him again, to comfort him, to hear that cheery sparkle in his voice that had so sparked Romano's irritation before but he missed so dearly now.

He wished he could do it alone, it surprised him how much he missed those pointless arguments with his brother, but that was an impossibility he would have to face.

"I was wondering if... if... _you_ could see him..." The words were out in a breathless rush, as if he were afraid of what the answer would be, if he would be shot down, dismissed completely for his idiotic suggestion, the last hope he had to hold onto crushed in an instant. His eyes were screwed shut, desperately trying to keep himself pieced together, not able to look at the Spaniard who held his fate so delicately in his hands.

The Spain was silent, thoughtful. The blinding hope that had flared up in Romano began to fade as the silence dragged on, sinking deeper and deeper into hurt shock, as Spain remained stubbornly unvocal on such a desperate topic.

_Why the fuck isn't he answering?_

"What are you fucking waiting for?! Answer him! Tell him I'm here! Tell him you can hear me, that I want to talk to him."

But the tense silence still ticked by, Romano's voice ringing loud in the air, unacknowledged. Spain made no move to answer, utterly ignoring Romano's desperate shouts, his pleas bouncing off him like a stone wall. Romano could feel his ever temperate anger beginning to boil.

"Spain... you have to say something. This is my chance to talk to him, probably my only fucking chance. He's my brother, dammit! Why the fuck aren't you saying anything?!"

Spain didn't respond. He never responded.

"Please say something." A broken mutter as it came from Veneziano, muffled by his hands as his face hung in them. "Just tell me straight... C-can you see h-him?"

His voice broke on the last word. Romano felt a lump form in his throat. He wished desperately there was someway he could help. It was something that hung in his mind too often now a days.

"No."

_...Okay, now tell him you can hear me._

"He's dead Italy. He's gone. No one can see him."

The words shattered the tense silence. They sliced into Romano, slowly, a sick torture, hanging in the air, dominating everything. Romano choked in shock, unable to voice the disbelief and hurt that swept through him. He stared at Spain, hating with flaring passion the smug, content look that seemed to linger in his eyes – whether it reached his face or not.

Romano felt his rage grip him with burning hands. He clenched his fists,resisting the all too necessary urge to lash out violently.

Out of the corner of his eye, Romano saw Veneziano glance up to Spain, not shocked or hurt by his answer, only defeated, broken, holding one last hope that Spain might be wrong. He only had to see the certainty in Spain's face to look down again, crushed.

That was the last straw for Romano.

"What the fuck was that?!" Romano shouted. Venom and anger laid thick in his voice. He didn't even try to hide it. He didn't even try to keep his voice from rising to a yell. He enjoyed the way Spain flinched from him at the words. "You think you can just fucking tell me when I can and can't speak to someone. To my _brother_. Who the fuck do you think you are!? Fuck! I-you can't do this! I _need_ to talk to him!"

It was too long before Spain gave him an answer.

"I-I think I should go."

Romano only laughed at Spain's shaky voice, bitter and harsh.

"Wha- Are you fucking kidding me?! No! Dammit, we're not leaving! _I'm _not leaving. You can go do whatever the fuck you want! You think I give a shit about you?"

Romano could feel himself shaking with anger now, his face flushed bright red. He needed to kick something, to punch something, anything, a way to let his burning rage out. The enticement of smashing that bastard's face in was all too tempting.

Spain got up and brushed himself off, his calm demeanour only tugging at Romano's anger more. He said his goodbyes to Veneziano before walking steadily off without another word, quick and eager to get alone with Romano so they could talk.

He obviously expected Romano to follow like some sort of pet dog.

_Fucking bastard!_

Romano stayed perfectly still, arms crossed, an angry scowl taking place on his lips, watching as the Spaniard became just another head bobbing in the crowds of people walking down the path.

"Fuck you too Spain!" Romano shouted, his words travelling across the space between them with ease. He didn't care if people heard him. "I'm staying right here, you damn bastard!"

Spain stopped, and for moment Romano thought he was actually considering changing his mind, doing the _right _thing, letting him talk to his brother, but he carried on after only a second, shaking his head, stupidly stubborn as always, leaving Romano and Veneziano alone on the hill. It wasn't long before he had disappeared completely into the trees.

There was nothing but silence now between him and his brother, empty, forgotten silence. It calmed Romano, allowing his aggravated, rage-fogged mind to settle down, able to squeeze out little by little the anger and violence that had blazed through him, until there was nothing but empty space inside of him, too exhausted to feel, too hurt not to.

He spoke to his brother, a futile attempt to smother the hurt that echoed inside him from Spain's actions, tried to tell him about all his problems and worries that had dominated him since he died, an outlet for his grief, but the words fell on empty ears. Not a single response or reaction was ever to be returned to all that he said, not that he expected any less. They even eventually trailed off, unable to carry on, to bear the pain that cracked Romano's heart every time his pleas were blindly ignored, the rejected loneliness that engulfed him mercilessly at Veneziano's silence. It reminded him too much of the days when he knew nothing of Spain's ability to hear him, the agony, the shouts, the tears. It all seemed a foggy memory, buried behind him, forever forgotten. Who knew his own brother would bring it all back, fast and sharp, as though it only happened this morning.

And the silence stretched out in front of them, dominating and controlling Romano's existence now, plucking at his sanity, always trying to unscrew it until it was completely gone. It stretched out, on and on and on...

* * *

**Just thought you needed a little more angst after those two, unnecessarily happy chapters :) **

**But seriously, I hope you all enjoy it ^_^ Thank you all for the awesomely awesome reviews and amazing comments! I love you all so much :D I mean, I've almost got 50 reviews! How can you not be excited?! 50 REVIEWS! *mini dance***

**Just so you know, because you peoples are all so seriously amazing, I'm going to be giving the 50th reviewer a special prize so we'll wait and see who that turns out to be ;)**


	12. No Grief Has A Right To Immortality

**"No grief has a right to immortality. That ground belongs to joy, to hope, to faith."**

**_Henry Ward Beecher_**

It was fruitless to wish a day would never end; Romano knew that from experience. He knew from those rare, perfect days he had spent with Spain, just them alone, for hours upon hours of pure happiness, at restaurants, on the beach, in bed, as their whole lives had still stretched out in front of them. Many of those he wished had never ended, he had wished he could spend forever in those perfect, fleeting moments, but it was never to be. They would all eventually become glistening memories. He couldn't help wishing though, as the threatening dread built up infinitely worse as time ticked by. It wasn't his fault he didn't want to face Spain right now, not after what the Spaniard had done to him. Romano didn't think he could handle it.

But it was inevitable, as the sky slowly turned from its crystal blue clarity, through the burning colours of the rainbow of sunset, before the blackness of night settled in, for the day as he knew it, peaceful, forgetful upon that hill, to finish.

Veneziano had left long ago, as the sun had begun to sink in the sky and the burning heat had began to cool into evening, leaving Romano and his twisted thoughts completely alone.

_Alone._

Why did that word insist on haunting him so much? No matter what happened, no matter where he ended up, no matter how desperately he tried to escape it, that feeling of pure loneliness would always end up consuming him again. Even if he had the lucky grace of going whole days between the blinding moments when he felt it, the feeling would always eventually creep up on him again, sending him spiralling to the bottom, filled with self hate and isolation.

Was this all fate had in store for him, for everyone, after death?

Somehow, through the dark, bustling streets and the night-life of Rome, Romano found his way back to the hotel, alone with his damming thoughts swirling, battering through his mind. He stared up at the front door, looming over him, laughing at him like the rest of the world, at his loneliness, at his life, the idea of entering it doubling the dread that twisted in his stomach. He took a breath, steadying himself, before heading into the hotel.

A sea of voices gushed to his ears as he stepped into the lobby.

"-how much does this cost?"

"-where is the-"

"-I heard that it was-"

"-Romano."

A thick British accent cut into him through the wall of background voices. It made Romano stop and turn, desperately searching through the crowds of people for the source. He found the Brit sat in the corner of the room, a book in one hand and a cup – presumably filled with tea – in the other. Seated with him, immersed deeply in their own conversation, were France and Prussia, blatantly ignoring the Brit and whatever he had had to say. He stared indiscreetly at Romano, only averting his eyes back to his book when the Italian caught them.

A split second decision; that was all it was. Romano made it there and then the second the idea popped into his head. He knew there would be no other chance.

He weaved his way through the crowds carefully, not in the mood to find out what would happen if he touch anyone other than Spain, and made his way to England's seat. He stood looming in front of him. The Brit unashamedly ignored him.

"I know you can see me. I just want to talk to you."

England remained silent. He sipped his tea casually, not taking his eyes from the suddenly too interesting book. Romano pushed aside his irritation at the Brit's obvious denial of his words, rude as it was.

"Don't ignore me, you bastard. I just need to ask you a favour. We don't have to talk here."

A glance, that was all England gave him before quickly shooting his eyes back down to the book, but it was enough, enough to confirm Romano's suspicions of England being able to see him, enough to spark new hope in his chest of his far fetched idea.

Romano didn't move from where he stood, knowing that England would have to look up to him again eventually. Ignoring him wouldn't make him leave. And he did look up again, this time his eyes lingering on Romano from above his book for more than a split second. Romano saw the indecision that flared in his eyes. He didn't know why it would be such a hard decision for him simply to talk to him.

There was a moment of anticipation, and then England sighed, closing his eyes and gulping down the last of his tea in one, quick go. He closed his book and stood. Looking at Romano for no longer than a second, he gave him an indiscrete nod, before walking away, out of the lobby and towards the hotel rooms. Romano followed.

As they walked, both men stayed perfectly silent. A small smile of relief tried to break through onto Romano's lips. He couldn't stop it; the grateful feeling of finally being acknowledged, to have someone look at him and be able to actually see him after so long, not just stare through him into space as though he were nothing more than dead air, spread warmly through him.

Nobody ever realises how much they crave human touch, human acknowledgement, how much they take it for granted until it's been ripped away from them all at once so nothing is left. Nobody ever realises how much they need it to carry on with life, just to get through the simplest things, like realising they are important to the world, even if it's in the smallest of ways.

But he hated that, after everything that had happened, his acknowledgement came from England.

The Brit stopped abruptly, almost causing Romano to slam into him in his haze of thoughts, having reached his room two floors above. He opened the door slowly and held it as Romano walked in behind him, glancing quickly along the corridor, as if someone was watching, as if someone was liable to hear their conversation.

He closed the door with a final _click_ and Romano couldn't escape the feeling of being trapped. He only finally looked up to Romano after placing his book on his bedside table and sitting on the bed. His displeasure at having to do this was more than clear on his face.

"Can we make this quick please? I try not to affiliate myself with ghosts too much." Romano frowned at the obvious irritation that leaked into his voice. He did not even try to hide how much he disliked their meeting.

"I need your help..."

Romano trailed off. He was unsure, how to voice what he wanted, unsure how to ask for help from a rude British man. He hated asking people for favours; he hated having to owe people. He didn't like the idea of being lowered to a level of having to grovel for what he needed, that he couldn't do it himself.

England only stared at him, impatient, frowning at Romano's silence.

"With what?"

"I...I want to talk to someone," Romano muttered, carefully averting eyes from England's bearing gaze. He tried to collect to his thoughts but his own sudden anxiety stopped him in his tracks. He tried to ignore how his palms became clamming, how his stomach twisted in desperate hope.

"To whom?"

The harsh, impatient tone in England's voice only made Romano wince, only made the nervousness play havoc in his stomach.

"To- to my brother. I need to talk to him..."

"And you need my help to do it?" As an answer, Romano looked up to England's questioning eyes, trying desperately to show how much he needed this favour. He nodded once.

"I can't understand why you need my help. You were talking to that Spanish prick of yours fine during the meeting. Can't he do it for you?"

Romano's mouth became a white line in anger at the mention of _his_ name. He narrowed his eyes in a dangerous glare, all the rage that had fizzled out at Spain's spiteful action suddenly flaring back into him. But he said nothing, for once knowing that anger and cursing was not the way to get what he wanted, knowing that taking his rage out on the only available person was the worst possible idea. Instead he just said: "He won't let me."

He didn't elaborate anymore. He hoped England wouldn't push for an answer.

"Very well." The Brit shrugged absentmindedly, his insistence on treating the matter as nothing more than a mild problem beginning to aggravate Romano. But he was stood again before Romano could say anything. He walked towards the door, opening it before turning to Romano and gesturing outside to the hallway. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline your favour. Good bye."

Romano blinked, utterly lost. It took him a moment for the reality of England's words to settle in. It was a moment before the anger and rejection flared up inside of him. This time, he couldn't stop the temper sprung words from pouring out his mouth.

"That's it? That's all you have to fucking say?! I _need _to talk to my brother! I'm asking you nicely for a favour here-"

"And I said I'm not bloody doing it. Now get out."

Romano's eyes narrowed. He felt his blood run hot with frustration. His fingers twitched. He bit his tongue to hold back the insults that flooded his mind. Taking a few deep breaths, he calmed himself, trying to tell himself that England wasn't worth it.

_He really was._

"You know... if you were a ghost-"

"-that could never happen-"

"-_if _you were a ghost, and I was the only one you could talk to-"

"Why would I-"

"Just shut the fuck up and let me talk!"

England's scowl became a thin white line of disapproval. He closed the door, as though embarrassed by Romano's shouting coming from his room, before folding his arms defensively. He shook his head, muttering something indiscernible to himself.

Romano regretted the words the minute they slipped through his lips. His temper would not help him now. He tried not show to feeling of dread that pooled sickeningly in his stomach, the crushing disappointment that gripped him tighter, as his desperate hope of a plan stretched further and further out of his reach and into the realm of impossibility with every word he said.

There was only silence from the Brit now, for once offering to listen to Romano's story, glaring at him expectantly, his expression highly unconvinced. The Italian began again, his voice coming out steadier than he felt inside – much to his own surprise – and this time England did not interrupt.

"How...how would you feel if one of your brothers died, say... America, a-and I was the only person who could talk to him as a ghost, and I suddenly said that you weren't allowed to talk to him. You weren't allowed to say good bye, or tell him how you felt, all those things you regretted never saying to him before he died..."

The defensive borders England had built up around himself seemed to crumble at Romano's words. His hard, green eyes softened beneath his eyebrows. The permanent scowl that was carved onto his face seemed to melt away into a sad frown. Romano could tell he was getting to him.

"Just one meeting, that's all I'm asking for, just to tell him all those things." Romano paused for second, unsure whether he wished to add the extra word, but somehow he felt there was no other choice. "Please."

The pair stared at each other. Romano's dark brown eyes burnt with pleading hope, desperate for only one answer. England's emerald green ones flashed with uncertainty, for once in doubt of himself, teetering on the edge of indecision. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Romano held his breath as he waited for the answer. His fingers felt numb with anticipation. The silence seemed to pound in his ears. Minutes passed, each second feeling like an hour.

Eventually, England sighed, muttering something quickly, too low for Romano to hear. The Italian felt himself tense at the prospect of an answer.

"Fine! I'll do it." The tone of voice was clipped, as if the favour was too much of an inconvenience to him, but Romano ignored it. A smile spread immediately across his face, one of glowing happiness and gratefulness, of relief. He could barely contain the excitement that fluttered in his chest. The desperate tension that had built up in with the unbearable wait gushed from him in an instant. His whole body seemed to relax at the feeling. The lead weight of never knowing whether he would talk to his brother, hear his voice, his musical laughter ever again was lifted in a gust of pure relief. He felt he could laugh.

"Can you call him then?" Not even could Romano hide the smile from his voice. England just looked up to him in surprise.

"You want to talk to now?"

"What?! In this dingy hole? Fuck no."

He already knew exactly where he wanted to meet Veneziano. An old, familiar place, somewhere he could feel comfortable, somewhere only him and his brother knew, somewhere close to them. Although he was hesitant to give it to someone like England, he had no other choice. His mind was not changing about this place.

He told England the address, regardless of the fact he would be there at the time to guide him, and told him again as he wrote it down with a time and a date – one-thirty tomorrow. England promised he would call him tonight.

"Fine. Now, could you please give me some privacy?"

Romano was all too happy to comply, not wanting to spend a moment more than necessary with the whining bastard. He strode from the room, glowing with relief and content, excitement rushing through him for what could happen. For the first time since his death he had a tight hold on his life, able to control it, able to understand what was happening next. The dull feeling of constantly having his own fate slip out of his control that had hung heavy in his mind finally began to disperse. Not even the slam of the door behind him as he walked through the hotel hallway wiped the smile from his face.

It only occurred to him where he had to go next as he strolled down the stairs. Back to his room, back to _their _room. His pace slowed. His smile faltered.

* * *

**There we go! I know some of you have been asking if England was coming back and here he is in all his glory. He kinda had to come back in a story with a ghost really. Anyway, I hoped you liked it! As always, thank you to everyone who was kind enough to review and favourite this story! I love you guys! And I also feel bad because I ****_keep _****meaning to reply to your review but I just always find I dont have the time. I hate school .**

**ALSO, I GOT MY 50TH REVIEW! Everyone have some cookies in celebration :D *hands out cybercookies* Thank you so so so so much! You would not believe how excited I was when it reached there! It was amazing! And of course, as I promised, I owe the 50th reviewer a prize! Echoes Of Shadows you are the winner and for your peize you can have anything you want! I can write you a fanfic, or read and review any stories you have, or both! Or even something else! You can choose! Have an awesome week everybody!**


	13. Grief Feels So Like Fear

**"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."  
~ ****_C.S. Lewis_**

The door to the hotel room was pushed slightly ajar when Romano finally reached it, swinging limply on its hinges, as though it had been slammed violently shut it a hurry only to bounce open again with the force. A small stream of yellow light spilled out, shining on – _or through _– Romano. He peaked through the small gap cautiously but found he could see nothing out of the ordinary, only the old fashioned, pastel wallpaper that was pasted, fraying at the edges, against the walls.

Confused, and having accomplished nothing with only looking, Romano tried to asses the gap itself. It was small, but luckily just wide enough for Romano to squeeze though without having to touch the door. He did just that.

The room he found on the other side was a complete and utter mess. It was as though a rage filled patient had torn through the room, not looking for something, just needing any desperate way to let out his burning anger. Bed sheets were strewn everywhere, some torn, some screwed up in the corner, none on the bed. Draws were ripped open, the already small amount of contents in them scattered helplessly on the floor. A lamp had been knocked over, cracked with the force, flickering on and off as it lay on the floor, broken. A vase sat shattered at the edge of the room, a wet stain trickling down the floral walls, shards of glass scattered dangerously across the floor, withering flowers dying as they sat, unattended, within the mess.

The culprit himself was sat sullenly at the small coffee table. He was laid out flat on it, his face buried into the wooden surface, hidden so no one would be able to see it, so no one could see the tears that streaked down his face. His hands clasped together over the back of his head, forcing his face further into the wood, tearing relentlessly at his hair, as if the pain of it would be enough to distract him from the agony shredding him on the inside. His clothes were stained, crumpled and torn. He was trembling violently. An excruciating moan slipped through his lips, echoing out through the complete silence, stabbing at Romano with the broken agony that lay thick within it.

Romano didn't want to feel guilty, but there was no way to stop it from gnawing away at him slowly, painfully as he stared at the broken Spaniard. He took an unconscious step closer. Whatever was left of his anger fled him in an instant; he only wished to help him now.

"S-Spain... Spain I-"

Spain's head snapped up at the sound of Romano's voice. He stared at the empty room, a deranged look of panic flaring in his eyes. A still moment ticked by, frozen, waiting, then he lunged forward, stumbling from his chair in sudden fright, reaching and grabbing helplessly at the thin air, desperately hunting for anything, anyone, to stop him from crumbling back into the darkened world of depression. He steadied himself quickly, still in a panicky rush, and looked up, his dull green eyes searching, always searching.

"R-Romano? A-are you there?" His voice was shaken, blind fear trickling through it, flitting through his expression, traumatized into a broken mess by some terrifying event, always on edge, always afraid it would only come back. His breathing was rushed. His eyes were wild. This is what Romano leaving had driven him to; a panic-ridden mess.

His guilt would never leave him after this.

"Y-yeah, I'm here. It's ok-"

Romano was cut off immediately, caught short as Spain let out a loud, breathless laugh of relief. He closed his eyes momentarily, breathing a deep sigh. When they opened again, any trace of the maddened panic from not moments before had all but vanished. He took a hopeful step forward, until it was only a few feet of empty space that separated the two. A smile played on his lips. He was himself again.

"Where did you go, Roma? I was worried sick!"

_Shouldn't you be worried about yourself?_

The sickly image of the wrecked Spaniard from moments ago played havoc on Romano's mind, never leaving him a moment of peace. It left him shaken, afraid. Guilt twisted in his stomach. The words wouldn't leave his mouth, a nervous lump had formed in his throat, and so it was Spain who spoke first.

"I thought... you- you had... gone..."

Neither of them wanted to finish that sentence.

Romano forced himself to speak, ignoring the shaken fear, the definite uncertainty. "No. I-I just needed some space... you know." The Italian paused as the events of this morning unravelled in his head once again, gave him a desperate distraction from the twisted image that his mind seamed to want to hold onto so tightly, something to grip onto with the tips of his fingers, a momentary relief. It seemed like days ago it had happened now, only a foggy memory, almost hardly worth getting angry over. He tried to put into words the intense feelings that had overwhelmed him. He tried not to stumble. "What you did... it pissed me off, dammit. You had no right to go and fucking do that. It only wanted to talk to him..."

Anger filled the air again, not as strong, but still just as prominent in the heavy silence. Spain didn't speak, only stared through Romano into empty nothingness, his ears pricked intently. There was a moment when Romano thought he saw guilt flash across Spain's features, but it was gone. When the Spaniard spoke again it was as though he was talking to a small child, patronizing, as though he himself had done no wrong.

"I just don't think you should be talking to Italy."

"So I don't even get a say in this. Even though it has fucking nothing to do with you. I just want to talk to my brother, dammit!"

_Why does that have to be so hard?_

The moment dragged on. Spain seemed to be lost for an answer, a small piece of his earlier fear and panic leaking into his expression.

"You're mine Romano, not Italy's. _I _am the only one who can talk to you and it should stay exactly that way."

It was the expression on Spain's face that drew Romano short in his answer, the pain, the hurt that lingered in his eyes, making the Italian reconsider the anger and curses that he was so tempted to shout at the Spaniard after what he said. It was this small hesitation though, that lead Spain believe he had won the argument. He ran suddenly into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, as if he wasn't even willing to hear what Romano had to say. The silence that followed was deafening

The subject was not brought up again; Romano didn't think he could handle it. Anymore of Spain's selfish words, his heartless comments, every one slicing further and further into his agony, and Romano knew he would snap, let the dominating world of anger and pain overwhelm him.

It was just selfishness really, the greedy nature of every human to think of themselves over others, but Romano had never thought of it in _Spain's_ nature to be so truly and utterly heartless for the sake of only himself. He could try to tell himself otherwise, blame it on the grief, that the endless, empty days of only unbearable pain and heartache, never anybody to draw it away, had driven Spain's usual kindness to the edge over the prospect of Romano, the ice cold fear that gripped his life, his heart, after loosing the love of his life to bitter hands of death. He tried to tell himself he had not really changed, but in reality, there was no way to tell.

It wasn't long before Spain came out again – he was surprised Spain had lasted so long on his own – away from the unbearable loneliness and back to Romano, the only slither that was left of his sanity, battered and shaken from the events of the day, slumped into exhaustion. He spoke only once, to ask briefly, desperately, broken worry lying thick in his voice, if Romano was still there waiting for him, obviously afraid that he had left in a fit of anger again, left from Spain's blatant selfishness. Romano confirmed and Spain went to bed in silence, a content look shining in his eye. He thought he had won this battle. He thought it would not bother him again.

Hours slipped by, the soft sound of Spain's snoring the only noise, before the nightmares started. The screams tore through the cold silence of the night, tortured cries, suffering pleas. Romano flinched away helplessly at every one. To him, they sounded no better than the nights that had haunted Spain not days after his death. He wore the same agonized expression, eyebrows furrowed in fear, sweat gathering on his brow, that he worn in the few panicky moments when Romano had walked into the room.

The memory came back to him in a cold slap. He could barely get it out of his mind, the wild eyes, the broken, desperate words, the fear that had slithered like ice down Romano's spine. Spain couldn't even handle a few hours without Romano's voice before sliding off the edge of sanity.

What if his hunch about why he was still here on earth was right? What if, once he had said his goodbyes, he simply vanished from the world without another thought? What would happen to Spain? He didn't think he would be able to cope. He didn't think he would be able to stand losing Romano again, not after everything that had happened. He would only slip lower and lower into the icy blackness of depression, of insanity – it was only the sound of Romano's voice that had drawn him out of it this time. Was that really what he wanted? What if he didn't even have a choice on the matter? What if he _had_ to leave?

_What if..._

The realisation was hard and sudden, the realisation of the true reason behind his cold fear, fear of not knowing what could happen, fear of the future.

* * *

**Ta da! 13 chapters! Wow. This is the same length as my last multi chapter story now and 60 reviews! 60 REVIEWS! I love you guys just so much! you're all so amazing and lovely ^_^ Thank you all so much. I don't know how else I can say how much every review means to me! You are amazing :D**


	14. You Are Not Enclosed

**"You are not enclosed within your bodies, nor confined to houses or fields. That which is you dwells above the mountain and roves with the wind…." **

**_~ Kahlil Gibran_**

Lost in his wondering thoughts, his only ever company in the lonely days that surrounded him now, time seem to slip by endlessly for Romano. It was all too soon before the dark sky and the sparkling mystery of the night gave way to the ghostly glow of a morning sunrise. The sky was lit with a dull sort of grey, entailing another cloudy day, another day of endless pain. It was no different to any other he had seen in the past month, the sky would slowly transform from navy blue to eerie white, before the sun poked its head gently over the horizon, a shining light bulb, lighting the world with warmth and honesty, no longer anywhere to hide in the obscuring dark. The idea of a spectacular sunrise had vanished to him, along with the sensation of life. It was all too distant now. It all belonged in another world.

And as the streets before him slowly became lighter and lighter, further and further into the dull morning, Romano's mood became ever more torn. His heart fluttered in excitement for the day to come. He was meeting his brother today, he was going to finally get the chance to say goodbye, say everything he had left unsaid when he was alive, complete what he had been left in this world to do, but at the same time, cold dread ran through his veins, more than one foreseeable reason fuelling it. Nerve driven thoughts of Veneziano repeatedly flickered through his mind, of how he would react, whether he would accept the news that he really was around after Spain's heartless rejection, or whether he would refuse everything, push it away, say they were crazy to even think of such an idiotic idea, and run off without another word, hurt and broken. Romano felt his blood run cold with fear at that thought.

And then there was Spain...

As though on cue, Romano heard the Spaniard stir, turning unconsciously away from the window, a small but painful moan uttering from his lips, drawing Romano away from his unwelcome thoughts. He would wake up soon, something entirely different that Romano dreaded to come. Once he was awake he would be wondering where Romano was, needing him for the day to come in order to keep himself together, to keep himself from breaking into panic ridden man that still haunted Romano's mind. If he wanted any hope to carry out his plans, Romano would have to tell Spain about them, tell him where he was going, why he had decided to do this, or else Spain would only assume he had disappeared without even a whisper in his rage.

Romano knew though, Spain would not take the news well. He despised England, a hatred that had boiled and stirred over years and years of fights in violent anger, and to find out the one he loved was turning to him for help could only end in an inevitable fight.

_It's his own fucking fault for stopping me talking to my own brother. He just needs to deal with it._

Different scenarios, versions of the inevitable conversation ran over and over through Romano's head. Each one started in a different way, some Romano was loving, careful, cleverly starting out by complimenting Spain, making him feel loved, content, before he sliced through it all with his biting question. In some he was harsh, insensitive, letting anger take control of him, voices filled with insults, clipped tones, ending with a rage filled silence, no one caving in to the others wants, nothing having been accomplished. They all ended like that.

Romano sighed. Difficult didn't even begin to describe this impossible task.

"Romano?"

The sluggish voice of the sleepy Spaniard drifted over to Romano. He was sitting up, awake, gazing groggily out at the all but empty room, still a shocking mess from before. Momentary fear skittered across his face. He was trying to hide it, trying to stay strong despite everything, to not let it show how he couldn't last an even a minute with Romano's voice to guide him.

"I'm here."

_I'm always fucking here. I can't ever fucking leave._

It was a while before Spain was able to wake properly from his sleep, up, changing from the same clothes he had warn over the past few days, chatting unconditionally to Romano as the Italian only gave vague answers in his nervousness, always in the need to hear Romano's soothing voice. It made Romano's heart squeeze at the forced cheerfulness Spain put into his words, only to keep Romano happy, only to keep his shoulders light with the guilt.

"So what do you want to do today, Roma?"

Spain sat on the bed, a gentle smile gracing at his lips, staring out to the room with unfocused eyes. Romano had to turn away. It tugged at his dread, his guilt, of what he was about to tell him. He shouldn't feel guilty, he knew, but he couldn't help what stirred inside of him.

"Well... I kind of... already have plans for today..."

Romano flinched at his awful words. It was shaky, obvious. Knowing the Spaniard, he would take it completely the wrong way.

But Spain's smile didn't falter. His eyes still sparkled with unwavering content.

"Ah, you're so organized. What are your plans then?"

Romano closed his eyes, taking a breath, willing himself to say it, thinking of the Spaniard selfishness, the way he had cut Romano off without a single word, as though he were nothing more than toy, denying him his last desperate wish to talk to his brother, bringing back some of his bubbling anger, enough to burn the guilt gnawing uncontrollably at him. When he next spoke, there was no hesitation, only conviction that this was the right thing.

"I'm going to meet with England and Veneziano today. He's the only person who can see me so he's going to help me talk to my brother. I don't fucking care what you think, you're just going to have to deal with it. It's your own fucking fault."

The tense silence rushed into the room. It felt almost necessary after Romano's heavy words. He dreaded the moment when Spain's voice would fill it.

"W-what?" His voice was filled with disbelief, but Romano still heard the cold anger underneath. He looked up, his heated retort on the tip of his tongue, but it fizzled and vanished into silence as his eyes landed on the Spaniard, the crushing disappointment, the heartbreaking hurt that streaked across his face. A lump formed in Romano's throat. It was a moment before he could speak, his guilt rendering him mute.

"I-I just... I need to talk to Veneziano Spain, a-and you wouldn't let me." He tried to sound more sympathetic, not able to bring the anger to his voice upon seeing theexpression on Spain's face. He pleaded with Spain to understand. "I-I had no other choice, dammit! After what you did, I had to fucking do it."

Romano paused, wanting to see what Spain had to say, wanting to see his reaction. He could only watch as Spain's face darkened in anger.

"So you decide to go behind my back, to that Britishbastard of all people, to do exactly what I asked you not to." Spain was on his feet now. He wasn't yelling, but the venom in his voice, the dark rage in his eyes, was more than enough to send a chill down Romano's spine. "That was your _only _choice?"

"I couldn't fucking talk to you, could I? You wouldn't even listen to me."

Again, hurt flashed across Spain's face. Desperation was beginning to leak into his voice now, hidden beneath the anger.

"That's not tru-"

"It's not like I wanted to go to him, but I had to, dammit. For fucks sake, you think you're the only one in the world who's grieving? You think you're the only fucking one who needs to talk to me? You're wrong, dammit! I need to talk to my brother and if this is the way I have to it then fuck you!"

Romano's anger burnt thick in the tense silence. His breathing was heavy from his loud speech. Rage scorched through him, all the rage that still controlled him from the past few days, every argument with Spain, every heated shout, curse, engulfing him in a wave of fury.

He couldn't stay. He couldn't bear to look at his smug face. After everything he had done, everything he had put Romano through, Spain still thought he could control him, he still thought it was only _him_ that mattered in the world. He knew where Romano was going. He knew what his plans were. That was enough.

"I'm leaving," Romano snapped, his voice flat, cold. "I'm going to meet my brother and there's no way in hell I'm letting you fucking stop me."

The anger in Spain's eyes transformed in panic in an instant. All the hurt, the rage that had built up during the argument had vanished, leaving only dread behind. He was desperate, needing to do something, needing someway to stop Romano, twitching, searching around frantically, hesitant for an idea. Of course, there was no way he could stop him, being invisible for once having its advantages. He only had to slip through the doorway, out in the hall, and Spain would no longer be of his concern. That is, until he returned.

He began to walk, slow, under no pressure of time, not able to look at the Spaniard again as he did, fearing his expression would only waver his determination. He was about to tell him, to open his mouth for one final goodbye, but a rush of footsteps stopped him, the hard slam of the door, and suddenly Spain was front of him, back pressed firmly against the door, arms out stretched, blocking the only way out, his eyes closed, a look of unbearable pain and hurt latched onto his face. Still, no guilt crossed his features.

Romano felt his blood boil as his new, raging anger burnt hot inside him. His hands clenched into fists. He could feel himself trembling. It was all he could do not to lash out. It was all he could to keep his voice steady as he spat the next words, slowly, thick with rage.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

Spain was shaking his head, flinching at the venom in Romano's voice. His fear was clear, fear of being alone, fear of a world without Romano's voice, of what would happen to him with the guidance of his lost love, clear in his expression, in his loud, shaking voice.

"You can't l-leave, R-Romano. I-I need you, I need you here. W-with me."

It was Romano's anger at the time that blinded him, set his narrow-mindedness on a straight course through his fog of rage. It didn't occur to him that words could have any other meaning than in that moment, blocking his only exit, only an obstacle preventing him from talking to his brother. It didn't occur to him to look at the picture as a whole, to note in truth what Spain's real fear was about, to think that Spain wasn't completely dim after all, that he had had too much time to think, to get ideas in his mind, to work out similar things to what Romano was thinking. There was no time to even consider before more distractions were already drawing him away.

Three knocks on the door drew the pair into a tense silence. A muffled voice came from outside, calling for Spain in a thick French accent, asking if he was alright, saying how he had heard a slam when walking through the hall and thought he should check to see what was wrong, to see if Spain was ready to talk yet.

"F-France..."

Spain turned, purposely keeping himself spread across the doorway so as to block it still, and peered cautiously through the peep hole. Romano took a step forward, unsure what to say or do, his anger still burning through him.

"Tell him to get the fuck out. We're having a fucking conversation here. Why should he interrupt?

The silence carried on for a long few seconds, the anticipation heavy in the air. Spain took his eyes from the hole and gently took a step back, hands still out stretched, careful not to make a sound to break the silence.

"Spain?"

The door jerked open. It was too quick to see, slamming into Spain's hand before he even had time to flinch. He let out a cry and stumbled back a few steps, grabbing his hand in the throbbing pain, carelessly letting France swing the door all the way open. The Frenchman was already running to Spain, apologising for his mistake. A red mark was already beginning to form where France had slammed the door into his hand.

"No! W-wait, you can't-"

Romano was already out the door, bolting down the corridor before Spain could stop him. He tried to push aside his concern for the Spaniard, his anger still bubbling uncontrollably inside of him. France could have hit Spain in the face with that door and he still would have ran. He just needed to get to England. He needed to get to his brother.

* * *

**Ohonhonhonhon~ France what are you doing?!**

**Anyway, sorry this is late but I couldn't put it up yesterday because I was at Comicon! (IS THAT AWESOME OR WHAT!?)**

**But thank you everyone so so so much for the amazing reviews and for all the love ^_^ I always love it when you leave what you have to say you guys so thank you! **

**And enjoy! :D**


	15. Grief Is A Sneaky Thing

**"Grief is a sneaky thing, because it can disappear for a long time, and then pop back up when you least expect it."**

**_~ Daniel Handler_**

Italy walked slowly through the winding streets of Rome, distracted, lost in wondering thoughts, as the sun blazed down with its scorching, mid-day heat onto the city. He had followed these steps so many times it was automatic now. He could drift off into his own world, as he so often did now a days, straying far into the corners of his mind, the locked off areas, memories that he dared not think about unless he was alone, that brought back so many emotions, the flowing tears, the fading smiles, that he found it impossible to keep any kind of control. Once he was there, it was a maze of tragedy and pain to get back to reality, not even to sweetest, most comforting of voices –_even Germany _– struggling to show him the fuzzy line between what was real and what was not. Many times he had woken to the delicately hopeful world where everything was just a twisted nightmare, too impossible to be real, too painful not to be, only to have to cold, shadowy slap of truth come crushing down on him, back to the world of torture and pain. Those were his darkest times. No one spoke of them any more. No one brought those back.

His solution, if completely irrational and foolish, was to simply not think of it anymore, not let his thoughts wonder in that direction anymore, not let the pain and torment grip him so tightly as it had at times. If he ever felt himself slipping dangerously off the edge at any time, when someone said _his_ name, spoke of _his_ existence, he would force himself to stop and think of something else, anything, the most distracting and interesting thing that came to mind. He had to keep himself constantly busy. When he was not conversing, spending time with his friends, he had to be doing something else, something that used all his energy, something that he could not drift away into another world from. Reading, sports, he was indifferent to what it was, as long as it worked. Only at chosen times did he allow himself to slide over into tears and grieving, alone, or with Germany, watching a movie, doing something that was impossible to draw him out again, at night, when the darkness engulfed him, when the strenuous length of another day had left him exhausted, with no effort left to even move, he would let the tears fall.

It was easier this way. Each day he could feel the pain getting lighter, easing off, giving him more space to breath. He could feel himself moving on, finally accepting that he was actually gone. Not that he really, truly wanted to.

He was drawing close now, just a left turn here, onto the small shopping street that so many people bustled down each day, and it slowly came into view, above the bobbing heads of hundreds of lazy pedestrians, walking up and down in the midday sun, past the rows upon rows of shops, cafes and more shops, lined up, neatly tucked together, cool, inviting air blasting out from each one, the ever interesting and colourful displays drawing people in through the windows, signs plastered up, exclaiming of 'New sales' here and '70% off' there. Italy ignored it all, lowering the rim of his sun hat over his eyes and pressing on determinedly through the crowd. He kept his eyes on the small sign, swinging lazily back and forth in the cooling breeze. It was black with white writing, intricately detailed and elegant, swirling and diving across the wood to make the letters. _El Rio Maggiore_: Italy's favourite restaurant.

Why England had chosen this place he could never understand. It couldn't possibly be a coincidence, could it, that out of all the restaurants in the whole of Rome he could have chosen for them to eat it, he had to choose this one, he had to choose the one Italy always insisted on visiting, the one that he or his brother never hesitated to choose when the opportunity arose. But it had to be; how could the Brit possibly know about his favourite restaurant?

With that thought to comfort his sceptical mind, Italy managed a small smile as the restaurant finally came fully into view, as the familiar smells wafted through the open doors, the same noises, the same Italians, boisterous shouts in the same voices he had grown to recognise over the years – not that they ever recognised him. There were tables prepared inside the candle lit room, laid out for twos or fours, some filled in the peak of lunch time, and out in the sunshine, scattered carefully on the pavement so it blocked the way for pedestrians, like every restaurant did. He could help but smile wistfully at the warm memories that came scuttling back from the familiarity this place. It was almost like a dark omen to see England sitting alone amongst it all.

Italy saw England before the Brit noticed him. It made him hesitate, suddenly unsure about this meeting, an uneasy feeling drawing him to a halt as an obvious thought struck him. Why on earth had England called him to meet in the first place? They rarely talked anyway – he was not his first choice on his list of people to call in need of companionship – only when the occasion called officially, in meetings or when their bosses decided to get together, so why now of all times had he chosen to have lunch with him? Maybe it was only for official business, England did sometimes seem incapable of having any fun. But what business did he have with England right now?

He remembered how vague he had been over the phone:

_"I just to talk about something important with you." _

What could that mean? _Important... _It could mean anything really. What he and England saw as important lay in very different territories. Honestly, the only thing that held any importance in his mind right now was his brother...

Italy shook his head and forced the heart aching thoughts to back of his mind again, locking them away for only when he needed, when he could let himself think about it. He made himself press on, needing a distraction, needing something to draw him away. He looked up to find that England had spotted him now and was trying politely, quietly, to catch his attention. Once Italy's eyes landed on his, a small smile appeared on his lips. The Italian made his way over, winding through the crowded tables and bustling waiters, and England rose from his seat, stretching out his hand to Italy's. The ginger took it in a brisk handshake before they sat in their chairs again. They quickly lapsed into an awkward silence, only the chattering of other customers covering over it.

England placed his hands together on the table. "I took the liberty of ordering drinks for us. I assume you wanted wine." It wasn't a question but Italy nodded anyway, needing someway to fill the silence. He watched as England leant back in his chair with a resound nod.

For a moment no one said anything. The silence was distant, unsettling. It sent an eerie chill down Italy's spine. Everything was suddenly cold and he once again felt a twinge of unease, separate from the awkwardness between his and his companion, the same feeling people get from being watched relentlessly from the shadows of night. It took him a moment before he could place where he had felt it before; outside the disaster of a meeting a few days ago, once France had left, as he sat broken, alone.

They skimmed through the menus without a word, ordering their decisions for their small lunch when the waitress came to bring their drinks. Italy ordered his usual – _Tangletelli Vongole_ – with a quick wink and a few compliments to the waitress ("Ve~ what's a pretty girl like you doing working only as a waitress?") ignoring the disapproving looks from England. It was a good enough distraction for him and sliced quite nicely through the awkwardness. She gave him nothing more than a shy smile in reply before leaving to place their orders.

A few more minutes of silence. Italy saw the frown on England's grow deeper and more irritable as the time ticked by. He even seemed to flinch a few times, though from what Italy would never know.

Italy eventually sighed. He could already feel the strains of the day, of trying desperately to avoid with every ounce of his strength thinking about _him_, beginning to wear him out, beginning to grate away despairingly at him. It took so little to drain his energy, his effort to care about anything anymore, it was hardly a surprise.

"Can you just tell me why you called me out here for lunch? You said it was important...?"

England gladly accepted the prompt. He had obviously been struggling to bring up the subject himself. "It is... I..."

He trailed off, his finger poised in the air, ready for his words. He stared at Italy, his face contorted in concentration, as though he was looking for something, listening for something, some far off noise, an intricate detail, that would tell him what he was to say. Then suddenly, he was talking again, as though he had never silenced in the first place.

"It's about Romano."

Italy felt his chest tighten at the mention of his brother's name. Pain flickered through him, for a second unbearable, until he was able to draw himself away from the moment.

_"He said he saw his ghost..."_

It was these distant words that France had once spoken to him that suddenly confronted his mind, a random thought, a reminder, drawing little relevance to the conversation but what his mind jumped to at the mention of England and his brother in the same context. He remembered outside the meeting, as France had told him England had seen _him_, had sparked in him that ridiculous flicker of hope, the spreading warmth that had filled him with the idea that his brother was still here, that he could still communicate with him, that he had not been taken so coldly, so suddenly, from the world after all. But it compared nothing to devastating disappointment that had crushed him with the truth.

His brother was dead. There was no changing it.

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Italy drew in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, to hold himself in one piece despite the pain.

"What about him?" His voice remained steadier than he felt, like he was cracking at every corner, like the tears that welled in him and stung at his eyes wouldn't leave him. He desperately wished for this lunch to be over already, so he could be alone again, mourn his loss in private where no one could judge him, pity him, to allow him to gain his strength in his solitude, strength enough to drag through another endless, strung together day.

The silence lay heavy between them, the mention of _him_ having filled it with uncontrollable tension. It needed to be realised, through tears, through screams of pain, but the silence only wound it tighter. Eventually, after a few seconds (feeling like hours to Italy) it all grew too much for the Italian. He forced himself to look upwards to see what was holding England's silence. He was staring at Italy, almost with too much force and focus in his gaze, as though he only looked at him to distract himself from something else, to stop himself from looking at what he shouldn't be looking at. Then he spoke, his voice soft in attempt at comfort.

"Do you remember when France spoke to you outside the meeting, after you... ran off? He talked about me being able to see Romano during the meeting, a-as a ghost... didn't he?"

Italy could only stare at England, stunned, frozen in impossible disbelief.

"H-how did y-you-"

"Of course you took that too much to heart – typical of you – and you were suddenly in desperate belief that Romano's ghost was floating around somewhere out there. But instead of coming to me you went to that bloody Spaniard instead-" An irritated frown had taken shape on his lips. His voice wasn't soft anymore, it had a clipped edge. "-only to be told that it was all rubbish. He really is dead-"

Italy flinched, the sudden stab of pain white hot like a burn in his chest. Tears pricked at his eyes.

"I... er..." England lowered his eyes, guilt flashing across his features. "S-sorry, I..." he muttered, almost too quiet too hear above the chattering voices. But it fell only upon blank ears to Italy. Shock still skittered through him. It surrounded him in a thick fog, scrambling his thoughts, making his words come out broken, stuttered. It gripped him in a world of frozen time, flowing thick like blood, as he tried to sort out his hectic mind.

How could England know those things? It didn't make sense. He didn't understand. It was all just a confused a mess. Only him and France and Spain knew about those times. They couldn't have told him, could they? He must be some sort of a mind reader...

A deep steadying breath cut into the silence surrounding them, the ice cold shock, Italy's confused mess of a mind. It was a moment before England spoke, unsure, treading into careful territory.

"I assume you're wondering how I know those things, if your expression doesn't give it away already."

Italy nodded, stiff, robotic, his eyes wide, confusion still pulsing through him. Again, England paused, seeming unsure what to say, how say what he wanted in the right way. His voice was quiet, soft again, for Italy's sake.

"I... I can see Romano – his ghost, I mean. He told me those things. He was there watching. He came to me asking for my help-" He cut off for a second and frowned, again, that look of concentration, "-sorry, I _meant_ to say, he wanted my assistance in a goal of his. He wanted to talk to you, to say a final goodbye – as some might say – if you'll hear him that is."

_No. It... it's not possible._

Italy's hands gripped hard at the table, his knuckles white with the force, but he didn't let go. His eyes never left England's. His mouth hung open in silent shock, unable to speak, his mind too chaotic to form coherent words. Disbelief was the only thing he could feel, sweeping through him in waves of denial, not daring to reach that bridge across again, too let himself feel that bubbling hope again, that optimism, for fear that the same agonizing disappointment, the reality that none of it was possible, would crush him again, drown him in its icy waters. He didn't think he could take it again.

"I-I... No... h-he can't. He- he's..." Italy realised he was shaking his head. He forced himself to stop. His voice was no more than a stunned whisper. "I-I don't understand what- what you mean..."

England's expression tried to look understanding but his impatience still leaked into it. He leant forwards on the table, fingers interlaced in concentration. When he spoke his voice was intense, serious, as though telling devastating news to a small child.

"Romano is still with us. Here. Now. He's sitting in that seat beside you, and he wants to talk to you one last time."

* * *

**Ciao~ Thought you guys could do with a change in POV after so much Romano, not that its any less heart breaking. You're welcome ^_^ I warn you, the next chapter also is from Italy's POV but after that its back our grumpy Italian once again. So dont think this is permanent.**

**One last thing! HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE! I know it was on Wednesday but whatever, I love halloween and i hope you all had fun doing whatever you did. And thank you all for the amazing reviews! I love you all! ^_^ Don't ever stop being amazing!**


	16. You Learn to Dance with the Limp

**"You will loose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also good news. They live forever in your broken heart that does not seal back up. And you will come through. It's like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly – that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp."**

**_Anne Lamott_**

_The evening was warm, pleasant, like so many other evenings that dominated Italian summers. The sweet smell of Italian cooking drifted through the house, engulfing Italy as soon as he opened the door, humming to himself tunefully, contently. It brought a smile to his face, the delicious smell of tomatoes and herbs, bubbling away on the stove, so fresh, so Italian, perfect to match the beautiful evening air. He skipped into the kitchen, absentmindedly following the aromas, to find his brother standing beside a simmering pot of tomato sauce, leaning on the counter, gently sipping at a half-full glass of wine, watching intently as the football players danced their game on the television. _

_"Ciao." His eyes didn't leave the TV when he spoke, flatly, holding no interest to his brother over the intense game. Italy didn't mind. He was used to hsm brother's disinterest. Instead, he strolled over to the stove, to the delicious looking sauce simmering away, grabbing a spoon as he went. Gently, he dipped the spoon into the red liquid, about to taste it, to compliment it, to tell his brother of the improvements that should be made, like they always did when they cooked together, but he was cut short when a hand slapped the spoon from his own. It clattered onto the counter top. _

_"Oi, it's not ready yet bastard."_

_Italy looked up to Romano's indignant face, confused, but once again he was more focused on the television, as though trying to avoid Italy's eye. He insisted on remaining still, not even as Italy's eyes grew wide and pleading, his voice whiny. _

_"But fratello, it looks so good."_

_"Yeah, well, you weren't here to make it so you can't have any until it's done."_

_Italy pouted in reply to Romano's parent like words. There was a smug air about him, one that Italy knew from experience would not give in easily to his pleading, that smirk on his face, the kind he wore when he made a good comeback in a fight, as always, trying to the true smile underneath. _

_Looking back on it now, Italy knew it was the last of Romano's gracing smiles he ever saw, whether it was honest or not._

_"Where were you, anyway?"_

_Romano was looking at Italy now, his smile vanished in place of suspicion, the distrust looking surprisingly like hurt in his eyes. Italy immediately brightened from his fake slump at the question, eager to tell his brother about his amazingly, perfect day, not giving any thought to his interests._

_"Ve~ I was with Germany. We spent the whole day together. I showed him around Rome, to all the sights, even though he had seen them all before, and he got really hot because it's really really cold in Germany usually so I bought him a sunhat but I don't think it worked because he didn't really wear it much. Oh! And we went out for lunch and... Why are you looking at me like that Romano? Is something wrong?"_

_Irritation, bordering on close to anger, flared in his eyes, written across his face. He slammed down his glass and took a step towards Italy. Sudden fear and nervousness sprouting in him, Italy took an instinctive step back, fearing for his own safety as he so often did when his brother got angry at him. He didn't even take the time to note the hurt that flashed beneath Romano's angry facade. _

_"You spent the day with that potato-eating bastard again?!"_

_Italy couldn't help but shrink away from the rage in his voice. Why was Romano so angry? Didn't he say he was okay with him and Germany now? If he had known he was going to react like this, he wouldn't have said anything._

_"Y-yes-"_

_"So you didn't even stop to fucking think through that seed of a brain you have that you might have other plans already?"_

_His shouts were louder now, echoing through the house, drumming into Italy's ears. This wasn't fake anger that he usually carried to cover his true feelings, this was real anger._

_"Ve? W-what plans?" _

_Something seemed to snap in Romano at those words, his rage bubbling to unreachable heights, a spasm of hurt flashing through the frown on his face, before vanishing again, too quick to take note of. He slammed his hands on the counter top, taking another step forward as Italy took an equal step back. He was trembling now, just as Italy was, both for different reasons._

_"The fucking plans you made with me, you bastard! Remember? In our favourite restaurant, the restaurant where I waited two fucking hours like an idiot for you to come, while you were out frolicking like some whingey piece of shit with that fucking German bastard! "_

_Italy blinked, for a moment lost in his brother's shouts, terrified of the rage that lay within them, before the realisation of what he was saying finally settled on him. Of course! Their lunch. He remembered now, their arrangements from weeks ago to get together properly for the first time in months, to just enjoy the Italian summer, the Italian food, to talk like they used to, like brothers. _

_"Oh..."_

_"'Oh'. Is that all you have to fucking say?" Italy didn't like the way his brother's eyes darkened in his fury, the way the venom, the spiteful anger, lay thick within his voice. He didn't shout anymore. No, this was much worse. "You forgot about me, didn't you? You forgot about me over that potato bastard. You forgot about your own brother."_

_The guilt was beginning to gnaw at him now, sick to his stomach that he had done this to Romano. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to speak. _

_"Ve... Romano, I'm sorry. I didn't think-"_

_"No, you never do. Go fuck yourself Veneziano."_

_With one last hateful, hurt look, he turned and headed out the kitchen, straight for the front door. "Wait! Romano!" _

_"Some brother you turned out to be." _

_Italy tried to follow, but was drawn short by spiteful words, his hurt that dug into him at Romano's disappointment, followed by the loud bang that echoed all around as the front door slammed, rattling the house with the force. He was left alone, the only sound the simmering of the sauce and dinner that Romano had made for him._

* * *

"You're lying."

Those words were all Italy could muster, all Italy could think in his blurred confusion of shock and disbelief. To think that all this time, after everything that had happened, his brother had been no more than a conversation away. It wasn't possible. After someone was gone that was it, they couldn't come back, you couldn't talk to them again. He wouldn't let himself fall into this trap of hope again, to let his heart swell at the idea that his brother was still here, like he had foolishly done before. It would only end badly. It could only end with the same, heart shattering realisation sweeping through him, the depression taking its tight hold on him once again, almost as strong as when he had first heard the black news so many weeks ago.

England had to be lying. He had to be.

More than anything, Italy wanted to be angry at him, to feel all the hate boiling up inside of him, raged that England could make up such insensitive lies, and to keep pressing them too, spinning them into a deeper and deeper web, continuously following them ever since the meeting, but Italy only felt empty, disgusted, a numb, burning pain spreading through him from his chest at the memories of his brother, happiness that he could never feel again. It all came flooding back to him; their meaningless fights; those rare times when he wasn't shouting at him, when he was worried for him; their last words.

He was shaking his head, gripping the table in desperate need for something, anything, to hold onto, rising from his seat. "I have to go. I can't-"

"Wait! Italy, I can promise you, I'm not lying." England was rising too, his voice flitted with desperation, almost as though he was begging Italy to stay. "You really think I'm lying to you after I went to all this bloody trouble-"

"But he's dead!"

The shout was too loud, breaking painfully at the last word, a sob erupting after as Italy's weakening grip on reality began to slip, releasing some of the bottled up pain that still controlled so much of his life. He tried to calm himself, but he couldn't stop his vision from blurring as tears began to slip down his cheeks. It was a moment before England spoke again, softer, trying to stop Italy from breaking into pieces.

"Just trust me-"

"Why?! W-why should I-I trust you? You- you've done n-nothing... nothing to..." The tears, the sobs, they were choking him now. The pain was drowning him, heavy on his heart, fogging his mind, hiding away deep the disgust and anger that should have been there.

Why was England doing this to him? Why was he insistent on forever bringing back that burning pain, forever delving deeper and deeper into his pit of lies, never giving up, almost like he enjoyed the tears that streaked Italy's cheeks, the agony that flashed across his face at the mention of _his_ name?

"I'll prove it to you."

It was England's desperate words drew Italy to a halt, cutting his thoughts, stopping him in his path, in his endeavour to leave the restaurant, to leave England and his lies behind forever. He looked up, confused, through his tear stained eyes, to the nodding Brit, an ever sincere expression on his face. Italy thought to speak, thought to ask him what he was talking about, but England was there before the Italian's body had time to react.

"I'll prove to you that I'm not lying, that Romano really is standing here. Just... ask me a question, Something that only you and your brother would know the answer to, something that would be impossible for me to know. If I answer wrong, you can leave, but if I answer correctly..."

Italy swallowed. His heart hammered in his chest, nervous, afraid. The tense silence drew on, hanging tightly on Italy's answer, on his choice. But Italy could only stand, torn in indecision, balancing on a delicate edge, eyes flickering between the door and the seat he still gripped onto so tightly, between escape and prison, between the numbing pain that every endless day brought and the stabbing pain that England was insistent on stirring up right now.

He ended up staring blankly out the restaurant window, to the sunny street that lay outside, to the cheerful people that walked by, smiles on their faces, oblivious to reality, the real pain of loss and death. He tried to remember when everything had become so dark to him, so cold, but it seemed to him like it had always been there in a way, always waiting for that perfect time to crawl out and begin to choke him, to drown him in the dark grief.

A chill skittered down his spine at the icy thoughts.

When had it come to this? When had his world become so dominated with his grief, his pain? If there was any way to escape it, even the slightest slither of hope, wasn't it at least worth a try? After all, was there really any more he could loose?

"Ve...o-okay..."

He made his body respond, making it sit down again and watch as England did the same, as the Brit turned to him, looking at him, waiting expectantly for the question, tensed, cautious.

But... what could he ask? What could his question be? Now that he thought about it, there wasn't much that he and his brother truly only shared together, especially in the months before _it _happened. There was the restaurant, but anyone could know about that, could have told England. For all he knew, his brother could have easily taken Spain, or anyone else, here without him, or simply told someone. No, he didn't want to risk it. This had to be only between them.

As Italy's thoughts spread, as he delved into his so long untouched memories that he held with his brother, the fun times he'd had out in the bright sunshine, the joyous laughter, the rare, glowing smiles, so did his frustration. He could not think of anything, his mind only drew up blank at all that he held. Besides, even if he did think of something, how did he know what his brother remembered? Important things to Italy could have a completely different meaning to him.

Italy sighed. It was impossible. His mind was obscured, every tiny, little thing always reminding him of the devastating grief that would only come later, of the heart shattering pain that always choked him with memories of his brother. The only thing that still hung vividly in his mind, in scorching pain, a reminder never again take his loved ones for granted, was their last ever meeting...

The idea was stuck in his mind in an instant. It was perfect, something only he and his brother could possibly know, something that they would both remember, and before he knew what he was doing, Italy was asking England the question.

"What were his last words to me?"

The silence that followed was intense, thick, as England nodded, carefully accepting the question, glancing cautiously to his side, to the empty space at the table that lay beside them, an expectant look on his face. Italy could only stare at him in desperation, fidgeting in his seat nervously, a sickening anticipation rolling inside of him.

It didn't take long to realise that the hope flickering in him desperately wanted England to be right, to answer correctly, to not be lying about everything. He didn't know what he would do if he had to return to the numbing pain that was his life now. He couldn't bear to think of it.  
Italy watched intently, England's expression morphing from uncertainty, to irritation, to pity in the space of seconds. Then he was looking at Italy, his eyes soft with sympathy, almost apologetic, understanding, not worried at all, confident that he had the answer. As he spoke, Italy could feel himself sitting on the edge of his seat, holding his breath, and hoping, desperately hoping.

"Romano... he says his last words to you were..." He paused, fidgeting uncomfortably, clearly uneasy at having to say the words. The anticipation that hung around them was deadly. "...some... some brother you turned out to be."

For a moment Italy was frozen, his breath caught in his throat, not certain if he had actually heard the words come from England's mouth or if it was his own frantic hope. But then, everything seemed to melt around him as the relief, the uncontainable joy that bubbled brightly through him, took over all that he knew in the world. He laughed bright, dazzling, his cheerful voice carrying out through the restaurant, not caring if people heard, only happy that England was right.

Suddenly everything was different to him, as though someone, somewhere, had turned on a switch, turned on the light. It was the same restaurant, with the same waiters taking their orders from the customers, the same frowning face of the blonde Brit, but at an identical time, everything had changed. The world was bright again, the sun finally shining with all its burning glory onto the world after so many days that the dark clouds of depression insisted on hanging over him, as though it had finally cleared for him to see happiness again.

He didn't dare let himself think that the pain would only come back later, when he was gone, alone again, with no way to get to his brother, all he could think of now was the sparkling hope, the undying belief that he could talk to his brother again, apologise, argue, anything, as long as it was him.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Italy could only nod in reply, too ecstatic to care about the smug tone in England's voice.

"Is it true then? Romano's here? I can talk to him? Ve~ I can't believe it. I've been waiting so long for this. Well, not waiting really, because I didn't know until just now, but you know what I mean... Ah, I don't know where to start. Should I tell him about how I've been? Or ask about him, how's he been, what's it like being a ghost, all that sort of stuff? Has he talked to anyone else? Probably not. It has a month after all. I wonder why he waited a month. Well, I can ask him that later. Other stuff is more important now. Oh! I know! I know!"

Italy turned to England, not able to stop the uncontrollable smile spreading on his face, even as England looked back at him with a slightly put off expression.

"I know what I want to say first!"

England cleared his throat, muttering something to himself and straightening his posture respectfully, as if to contain his composure, before gesturing vaguely to the empty space beside them.

"Tell him yourself."

Italy turned. He stared at the space for a moment, desperately searching, desperately hoping that something might happen, that suddenly, his brother would appear and Italy would hug him and tell him he missed him and everything would be back to the way it was, but Italy had long grown out of silly dreams like that. He just wished the disappointment, the reality that his brother really was gone, never coming back, wasn't as heart crushingly painful every time.

"H-hi Romano. I-I just wanted to tell you... I-I miss you... and... and I'm... I'm r-really so sorry I... I forgot about you."

A moment of silence. Italy strained his ears, searching, hoping for any sign of his voice, that he really was standing there. There was nothing. But he knew Romano was speaking to him, something told him, whether he could hear him or not.

"He says you're an idiot."

Italy felt tears slip down his cheeks, tears of joy, tears of undying relief, as his aching grin, something he had gone in his life too long without, that he would try his hardest to always wear now, whether it hurt or not, spread across his face. It was perfect. Exactly what Romano would say.

* * *

**Yep. There we go. Another, for once actually sorta happy, chapter for you guys. Enjoy ^_^**

**A few things. One, in reviews people have been asking me a lot how Romano died. I actually have a confession, I never had a plan of how Romano died. BUT I've been thinking, as so many people are asking, that I might write another fic about his actual death and how he died especially for you guys. What do you think? **

**Two. The Spamano story that I wrote for the amazing 50th reviewer of my story Echoes of Shadows is going up now. Just thought I should tell you. I had loads of fun writing it so if my story ever gets to 100 reviews *fingers crossed* I might to do something for that reviewer as well :)**

**And, as always, THANK YOU YOU GUYS I LOVE YOU AND YOUR REVIEWS ARE AMAZING THIS STORY WOULD BE NOTHING WITHOUT YOU SO THANK YOU!**


	17. Grief Is Not A Permanent Rest Stop

**"Grieving is a necessary passage and a difficult transition to finally letting go of sorrow – it is not a permanent rest stop."**

**_Dodinsky_**

Romano knew he could never understand the feelings that fluttered through him now, but then, who was he to try to understand how the world worked, why people felt the emotions they did and loved who they loved? Why he had suddenly been torn so heartlessly from the world of the living and forced into the next without so much as a clue as to what he was meant to do? He didn't try to understand anymore, he only accepted it.

He felt almost complete, a light, fluttering sensation, like he was above the world now, not in a superior way but in a way that he knew that world was in his past now and he was moving on to the future. He was ready to accept it, to welcome with open arms what fate had in store for him, what he was to do now that he was dead. It was a feeling he never thought was possible to feel, possible to even comprehend though all the pain and suffering that had streaked his world so often recently, but that all seemed meaningless to him now, a past self, a ghostly shadow that hung forever behind him as nothing more than pain-filled memories. He was a new man, the old Romano having been sucked from him, just like he was sucked from life. He was at peace.

It was his meeting with Veneziano that had sparked it, although he still regretted that England had to be a part of it as well. The words he passed with him, the confessions, the delicate truths, had lifted a crushing weight from his shoulders that hadn't even known was there, one that had been suffocating him, drowning him in the pain and grief that had cracked his heart, the loneliness that had gripped him so tightly since his death. Telling Veneziano all the emotions that had flooded through him, the words, the desperate guilt that had been scraping and clawing at him all this time at having been left unsaid before, had released him from the chains that had bound him to this world as an invisible ghost, all the negative and incomplete emotions nobody should be allowed to feel, and was free to live his life how and when he wanted, finally liberated from his choking pain, finally at peace.

He knew that at any moment he could chose to finally leave this life – pass on as they say – and sail onto the next. He wouldn't though, not yet. He still had a few final things to do, a few final goodbyes to say.

It was not an hour after Romano's and Veneziano's meeting had finished now. Having no where else to go, not able to avoid the inevitable confrontation, Romano set out on searching for Spain, although there were really only two places he could be.

Where they sat now, on top of the hill, was where Romano had first found him, utterly alone, slowly slipping into crushing oblivion, struggling to hold onto the last threads of sanity without Romano there. As soon as Romano had laid eyes on the broken Spaniard, his heart-welling peace of mind, of soul, his break from all the pain and tears that had dominated his life, faltered.

"S-Spain-"

The sound of Romano's voice had immediately brought Spain's body to life. He was standing in an instant, staring with unfocused eyes through Romano, out beyond him as though he wasn't there, as though he was never there. His hands clenched into fists, trembling, trying, failing, to hold on to something that simply wasn't there. Cautious hope fluttered through his expression, desperate, fleeting.

"Romano? Are you back?" His voice was quiet, trying to hide the crushing pain coursing through it. Romano felt his heart squeeze.

"Yeah, I'm back." Romano kept his voice flat as he spoke, not wanting to betray his emotions. "I didn't want to take too long."

A moment of drifting silence hung between them, neither knowing what to say to break it. Romano didn't like the lonely pain that burnt in Spain's eyes. Had he really hurt him that much just by leaving to see his brother?

"How did it go?" Romano couldn't help but flinch away from icy resentment that lay thick in his voice. He found it impossible to look Spain in the eye as he said the next words. He tried to ignore the inescapable guilt that twisted inside of him.

"I-it went fine. Veneziano believed me... England... he listened to what I had to say, he cried as I said good bye..."

"Good."

That was all that was said, one pain twisted word for all the agonising suffering of the last few days, the tears, the anger, Spain's panicked torture, compressed down into one bitter word filled with anger, regret, pain and misery. It chewed dangerously at Romano. Something more should be said; feelings were never meant to be locked behind barriers. But the pain was too much to face, too great to confront. It would only strike them down into broken messes, as pain could so easily do when it was your greatest enemy. So the words were left to drift in the tension of the silent air, unspoken, not received, only left to boil up inside of everything.

Why was pain the only thing that dominated their lives now?

They were silent now, only staring out across the elegant city, something they seemed to do so often now a days. They watched as the golden orb of the sun slowly began to sink low into the sky, cooling the earth, giving the world a beautiful glow, setting the buildings and streets of Rome on fire in a blaze of orange. The hill was empty of people, leaving him and Spain alone to go about their conversations, nobody there to give Spain judgemental, spiteful looks, nobody there to interrupt this crucial of moments. Romano attempted to gather up the impossible courage to take on the task he was about to lead, to tell Spain that he had to leave this world. He hadn't realised how much he had been dreading this moment. The sickly fear still twisted in his stomach, squeezing at his heart.

He was deathly worried what Spain's reaction what be, deathly afraid that he would not be able to cope with Romano's decision, dreading that he wouldn't be able to handle Romano's goodbye.

When Romano spoke, he couldn't hide the nervousness that trembled in his voice. Spain knew something was wrong almost immediately.

"Spain, we need to talk."

It was so cliché – he knew – and Romano hated it immediately. He let the words hang in the air for a moment in the regretful silence, let them settle and register into Spain's mind before he turned to look at him. The words that he intended to say next, quick, sharp words that would be over in an instant, like tearing off a band aid, were lost in his mouth, struck silent when he saw the Spaniard properly. Spain was staring directly at him, eyes wide, unfocused in the air. Fear and horror played across his face, a mask of disbelief, a mask of pain. But his eyes were sincerely dull, not fear pooling within them, little more than disappointment at the occasion, as if he knew it was inevitable for this moment to come, he was waiting for it, but he had hoped he would have had at least a fraction longer.

Romano shook his head, trying to draw himself away from the guilt that now played havoc now in him, trying to stop Spain's mask of horror from carving itself into his mind as he turned away. He had to do this. He couldn't wait any longer.

"Listen, I'm just going to get straight to the point."

"Roma-"

"No. Don't. Just let me say this..."

Romano let the urge to glance at Spain overwhelm him again; a mistake. His dull, forest green eyes pleaded with him desperately not to say the next words, not to carry on, not to bring everything he knew and relied on in the world crashing down with only a simple sentence.

_He knows_

It didn't matter. He had to do this.

"Spain... I think my time... here is going to be over soon. I'm going to leave, and we both know I won't be coming back."

"P-please... don't- you can't-"

It was nothing more than a tortured whisper, a desperate plea, begging with all his might, with the last of his strength. It tore at Romano. He didn't think he could take much more of this. He just needed it to be over quickly, _like ripping off a band aid_...

"We both knew just this was coming. I mean, it was inevitable really. I can't spend my whole fucking life invisible beside you. What kind of a fucking shit life is that? I just can't!"

Spain flinched, but he said nothing, only turning his head to look out across the view. The silence was lingering, suffocating in the Italian's ears. He expected Spain to respond, to say something, anything, about what was happening, even if was an agonizing cry, a desperate plea, but he did nothing. His face showed everything though, all the choking emotions hammering into him, the crushing disappointment, the depression, the agonizing heart break, the empty pain, always there hanging heavy in his heart. There was a stab of white hot pain deep in Romano. He had to look away. He couldn't bear to see Spain this way, knowing that it was because of him, that it was his fault, with the guilt eating at his insides. His heart hung empty in his chest. He could feel tears, thick and heavy in his throat. He desperately tried to force back the sobs that threatened to choke him. He'd forgotten how much he hated goodbyes.

_At least I get the chance to say it this time..._

He took a deep breath, readying himself for what he wanted to say next, forcing his voice to steady, the dark thoughts from his mind.

"S-Spain... I'm s-s..." _No, I need to say this. Spain needs to know. Fuck my pride. _"_I'm sorry_, okay? I... f-for... I have leave. I-I can't... fuck..." His voice was nothing more than a whisper now, a flustered, embarrassing whisper. His face burnt bright red. "I don't w-want to leave... to leave y-you but... Dammit, I can't stay here anymore! I've done everything I need to... I'm just not needed here anymore."

_I'm so fucking sorry, Spain._

He could feel it now, as his decision to leave became more and more finalized in his mind, as the inevitable moment drew closer and closer, as the seconds ticked agonizingly by, the feeling of detachment, that the world was fading slowly around him, or rather, he was fading from the world, the beautiful views, the humming sounds, all becoming increasingly distant, as if looking at the world through a dark mist, from many miles away. He had known this moment was coming, he knew as soon as he accepted he was no longer part of this world, that he belonged to another far away, and he had almost looked forward to it. But now it was here, now the time had come to leave, he felt surprisingly empty, as though leaving would not complete anything for him anymore, as though it was just another day in the life of the dead, nothing special, nothing changed. To leave, he felt, would be no different than if he decided to stay.

But it was inevitable, he knew, no matter how indifferent he felt about it, he had warn out his welcome here, he wasn't needed, he couldn't stay.

He was glad he was able to spend his last moments with Spain though. He desperately tried not to let it slip through his mind that he would never see him again. He tried to plaster over the gaping hole that had dug agonizingly into his heart. After all, nations couldn't die, could they?

_Then why did I have to fucking die?_

Maybe he'd find out after he left.

Romano stood. It was time. There was no turning back now. He brushed himself down – stalling – before looking out for a moment across the view – still stalling – thinking how much he would miss it, all the memories flitting through him in an instant, the breathtaking moments he had spent on this hill top. It was his home and was glad he could spend his last minutes here. He sighed, turning slowly to the Spaniard beside him. He still sat, deathly still, staring persistently out across the view.

"Spain..."

He refused to respond, refused to acknowledge what was happening, that Romano was even there, talking to him, desperately asking him to understand. It sent a cold reminder shivering down Romano's spine of the agonizingly numb days after Romano's funeral. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Spain was quick to cut him off, quick to come back with his own thought out statement.

"I need you."

For a shocked moment, Romano was speechless, unable to understand what the Spaniard had said. He could do nothing but stare in bewilderment, lost in Spain's twisted mind. He could only stammer a confused: "W-what?"

In reply, Spain stood, looking intently at the space where Romano stood, staring Romano straight in the eye. For a shining moment, Romano thought that the Spaniard could actually see him, but that was just a long forgotten, useless dream. But his eyes still flared with determination, a last glistening hope, for once burying the deep, unbearable pain.

"You say you're not needed... well... well _I_ need you Romano. Ah, you don't understand how much I need you, how much I can't live without your sweet voice... your...y-your perfect eyes." He was beginning to choke now, lost in the tears that slid endlessly down his face, lost in the infinite sadness that overwhelmed him. "R-Roma... I love you... _so much_. I-I thought... you l-loved me too...but..."

A heart wrenching sod shocked through him, killing his words, forcing him to close his eyes, wrap his arms around himself to stop the battering pain.

Romano could only stare in disbelief, stunned, unable to believe, not able to comprehend. How could he think that? How dare he fucking begin to doubt his feelings for him, the glowing emotions of love and care that had bubbled inside him for as long as he could remember, after all the times he had told him, showed him how much he loved him? It just didn't make sense. Just because he was leaving didn't mean... He had leave. Spain should understand... It didn't mean he didn't love him.

"Bastard..." Romano blushed, spluttering quietly as the direct meaning of the Spaniard's desperate plea began to sink in. "H-how could you... you- you know I... I l-love y-you..." Romano's flustered stammering trailed off into silence, purposely staring at only his feet, his face heating up rapidly, his blush darkening the colour of an evening sunset.

"Then stay with me... please. I _need _you Romano. I-I can't live without you... I don't know what I'd if... if you..."

Spain voice shook, his sobs and tears not stopping, never stopping, the pain and rejection laying thick in every word he said. Romano had to look up, not able to bear the Spaniard's trembling agony, straight into his hopeful eyes. He was desperate, holding out a single, trembling hand to his lost love, the only thing tempting Romano back to this world now, a guiding light, a hopeful reason for him to stay, to choose his love over everything else, just one hand in persuasion. But it was _Spain's_ hand.

But he couldn't stay. He didn't belong here, a mere wandering spirit, an invisible pest, always alone among the millions and millions upon the earth. No one would ever see him. No one would ever hear him. He was just an unwelcome ghost, deathly alone.

But Spain was right. When Romano had said he wasn't needed anymore, he couldn't have been as wrong as he was then. Spain needed him, and how could he say no to him, Spain and his sparkling eyes, his soothing voice, his sweet, loving kisses, caresses, the way he was never afraid to admit how much he loved Romano, how much he needed him, always able to cheer Romano up, make him smile, make him feel so loved. Spain was desperate now, lost, alone, drowning in this ever crushing world, the reality of having lost his love only coming to smash him in the face every day, every second. And the pain that came with it was utterly unbearable. It would impossible for him to leave Spain in such a battered state, broken, ripped apart by the infinite agony, falling, always falling, into the nothing that would be his life. Not after everything he had done for Romano, not with the everlasting love that sung in Romano's heart. Would anyone be able to leave the one they loved that way?

He was torn, indecision ravaging inside of him, teetering precariously on the edge.

He should leave, he couldn't stay... but he couldn't abandon Spain... he loved him too much...

"F-fucking bastard..."

* * *

**Dun dun dun...**

**Penultimate Chapter. What will happen? What will Romano choose, a happy after life in wherever you go after death or his everlasting love for Spain? Find out next time...**

**Also, sorry this is a day late. It was totally my birthday this week and you birthday celebrations and all that. But thank you everyone for the amazing amazing reviews ^_^ Everytime I read them I just feel so amazing! To think, my stories actually make people cry! THANK YOU! **


	18. You Cannot Possibly Imagine

**"If you have ever lost someone very important to you, then you already know how it feels, and if you haven't, you cannot possibly imagine it."**

**_Lemony Snicket_**

The air was bright, too blindingly bright in the misty morning, the sun shining down, not yet strong enough to remove the chill that ran through the air, cold and eerie in the icy silence of the graveyard. The cold seamed to cling to the mist, heavy, not right for the usual warmth of late summer that surrounded the hills. Above, the grey clouds gathered overhead; dark, ominous, making way for the black rain clouds that rolled at a steady pace over the horizon, ready to release the heavy rain built up inside on the small, peaceful graveyard, standing isolated, empty, alone. Only headstones could be seen, and the looming, twisted shapes of far away trees, shadows in the half-light of the morning, the obscuring mists. No one thought to spare their time and respect for the dead on such a chilling morning. Even the silence seemed to scream out, pounding, deafening to the nothing that hung suffocating with it, desperate for something, anything, to break it. Wind rustled the trees over head, so quiet, so distant. The damp smell of cold hung in the air, humid, promising a wet, rainy day, uninviting anyone who wished to visit, not wanting to face the unbearable chill. Everything was still. The cold morning only seemed to get colder as the day passed for the graveyard, untouched.

And then there was a shadow, the blurry shape of a figure emerging slowly through the mist. The sound of crunching leaves, soft grass beating in time with its footsteps. The wind rushed around them, excited for something to play with, relieved that someone was finally here to break the silence, to fill the void that had been growing ever life sucking, ever unbearable in the cold mist of the day.

They approached a grave, slow, solemn, head lowered in respect to the dead, their hands stuffed tightly in their pockets. A simple grave, same as many others, fresh grass growing, as it passed untouched, on top of the coffin, a grey headstone at the top, casting the grave in shadow as it stood, tall and protruding, from the soil. It was shaped as cross, symbolic to the importance of the person that lay beneath it, with dark vines beginning to crawl up the stone, as it lay untouched after so many months, intricately individual, shaped so different, so expressive from the others, suited to match the rester's personality, its own patterns and words, carved deeply into the dull plaque the cross stood upon.

It read:

_'Italy Romano._

_Always daring to prove that the impossible can happen._

_La morte mi troverà vivo'_

And above the grave, dancing, waving in the wind as it gusted through it's fluttering leaves , stood a single, lonely tomato plant, shining green in the grey light of the morning, standing out, as extravagant and individual as the person buried beneath from everything around, the trees, the soil, the dull sky. It held onto the only spark of life that remained in the dead graveyard, the only flicker of colour, the only breath of hope.

Spain smiled, wistfully, no happiness entering his green eyes, as he stopped beside the delicate grave, staring not at the headstone, but at the small plant.

The memories were already engulfing him, surrounding the cold morning, filling it with the pain, the heart shattering agony that he couldn't stop from taking over him at the simple sight of this place. He remembered, as clear and agonizing as it was at the time, how he had stood in this very spot and watched Romano's body sink into the earth and leave him forever, how he had wished he could have died there with him, jumped into the hole and been buried into blackness along with the coffin. He still knew that somewhere down there, beneath the layers of green grass, dark soil, the burgundy coffin, was his heart, the one and only love of his life, and that he would never get it back. It was locked away, torn from his chest in unbearable torture, the key destroyed in the burning days of loneliness and depression that still warped his mind, and the idea of getting it back, of being able to love again, he knew, was physically impossible.

Whether or not it was a year ago now, the pain was still just as excruciating, the empty hole in his chest was still just as wide, just as gaping, still sending the burning ache of loss and grief shooting through him every time he thought of Romano, his eyes, his smile, his touch, still almost every second.

A single lily, that was all Spain had to show for himself, all Spain had to show the meaningless grave how much he missed him, how much he needed him, but he new it was enough. He knew Romano would appreciate it, see the meaning behind it, be thankful that it wasn't a thousand, showy flowers, enough to embarrass him into his grave once again. He could imagine the look of joy and gratitude on Romano's face, hidden away behind that ever sweet frown of his, blushing deeply, always secretly loving it when Spain showed him how much he loved him, and Spain might have smiled.

And the tears began to fall, at first silent, simply skimming his cheeks as he place the lily at the head of Romano's grave, where his beautiful face would have been, but as the too distant memories began to batter him, one after another, of all the amazingly, perfect and brilliant times he had spent with his love, and it came back to him how much he achingly missed Romano, the sobs began to echo out across the graveyard too, broken, lost, agonizingly desperate.

The graveyard couldn't stand it when it was these sorts of cries that broke the silence.

It was immeasurable about of time that Spain poured his soul out into the empty air, until his tears refused to come any more, until his voice lay hoarse with screams, but the pain still as suffocating as ever, and began talking instead, telling the headstone anything and everything he could think of to say. It gave him a peace of mind, that he was talking to Romano and Romano was listening to what he had to say, as though he were still alive. He carried on like that well into the day, just talking, nothing more, enjoying the peace, the tranquillity of the graveyard, happy to be alone as settled his broken mind in this way. It was only as the sun was setting, and sky turning from blue, to grey, to burning orange above him, did he come to a halt, the daunting prospect of darkness, of having to end this serene day gnawing at him, forcing a sad look upon his face, and began to slowly, grudgingly complete his final task that he had come here to do.

Contrasting with the bright green of the leaves of Romano's tomato plant were the small, red balls hanging from the branches, ripe, ready to be picked and eaten, the first fruit of the year. There were only five, just enough to fit into Spain's hand, but he was still proud, it still brought a small smile to his face that the gift he had brought Romano, his farewell gift, was giving back, as though it were Romano himself giving Spain the tomatoes. And there were still more to come, still more to ripen on the plant, and Spain couldn't wait for the excuse to visit the grave like this more and more.

_"I tell you, this really does show how fucking awesome tomatoes are. If they can survive in the creepiest place on earth, they can survive fucking anywhere."_

Romano's voice still echoed through the empty graveyard, music to Spain's ears, still making his heart swell and almost bringing a smile to his face every time, almost as though he were still alive.

"Roma! You can't say that about graveyards! They're the only place the dead have for themselves. You should know that."

Leaving the icy silence, the cold day, the aching pain, the agonizing memories behind, Spain walked from the graveyard, slowly, in no rush to leave such a peaceful day and hurry onto the next. Although he couldn't see him – why would he be able to – he knew Romano was there, walking beside him, smiling behind that scowl of his, wishing the same that this day would never have to come to an end.

"Romano?"

Spain hesitated for a moment and held his hand out into the dimming light of the day, patient, waiting, hoping the question would be understood. And then he felt it, the gentle, tingling sensation of Romano's hand in his, as they held each other's hands, like old times. He closed his eyes, almost feeling like Romano was there with him, as he heard his voice, held his hand, and let out a wistful sigh, a small smile appearing on his face.

This was how it should be, him and Romano together, with no one else in the world to worry about. He smiled as he thanked whatever force above at let Romano stay with him, not move onto some other life, show how much he loved him. Spain didn't know what he would have done in a world without even Romano's voice, just nothing, empty blackness, pain.

But he was here, and that was all that mattered.

The risk of love was worth it just to feel this way again.

* * *

_The End_

* * *

**_'La morte mi troverà vivo' _****is an Italian saying meaning 'Death will find my alive'**

**And that's it. The end. I hope you enjoyed it all because it was ****_amazing _****for me. I worked so hard on this fic and to find out that you all loved it! GAH! I can't believe it :D I hope you liked the ending too. I tried to make it happy after everything ;)**

**I'd just like to leave a few thank yous! A huge huge huge thank you to my amazing Beta Reader ****_ 13. _****She read through all of this and gave me the feedback to make it awesome**

**And also thank you so so so so so so much to EVERYONE who reviewed and favourited and showed in some way that you loved this story because you guys are truly the best ever! The main one that pops into my mind is ****_Allers3, _****who reviewed everytime!**

**THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!**

**Also, I literally only just realised but MY FIC HAS 100 REVIEWS! THIS IS SO AWESOME! THANK YOU SO MUCH! ****I said I would give a prize to the 100th reviewer, and, if I counted right, I believe that was Book Thief101! Message me if you want a prize :D**

**And this is farewell to you all. I LOVE YOU!**


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